


Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

by rabidchild67



Series: Of Conmen and Angels [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to <a href="http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/71642.html">What’s the Price of Heroes?</a> What happened to Neal in the months before Peter found him again? A story of Becoming. </p><p>This is my entry for White Collar Big Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to another story, though it is not vital to have read it. The story thus far: After his anklet came off, Neal disappeared without a trace. Eighteen months later, Peter found him much changed and about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder (along with other winged people) by Matthew Keller. It is six months later, and Neal has just returned to Peter and Elizabeth.
> 
> Art by Embroiderama, [find it here](http://embroiderama.livejournal.com/501720.html)

Neal moved quietly through the darkened Burke house, reveling in the feeling of finally being home. He let his fingertips linger over the familiar things and smiled – the photos on the wall, the books on the shelves, the nubbiny fabric of the couch. Some of the things had been acquired after he left, and he appreciated them too – a fancy new coffee maker, the new rug in the dining room, and were those _golf clubs_ in the front hall? That life had gone on without him did not disturb him, not any longer, although the fact that the new items had been chosen without his input made him feel disappointed not to have had the fun of helping in the decision. 

He sighed and moved out to the back deck, stared up at the half moon and stretched his limbs – all of them – enjoying the feeling of the early Autumn breeze in his feathers. He heard her coming down the steps as soon as she started – his senses were much more acute than they used to be – and waited expectantly for her to find him there. Still, her small, warm hand on his waist was a surprise, or maybe more like a miracle. He had missed this so much.

“Hey,” he said, turning and taking Elizabeth into his arms. 

“Hey yourself. Can’t sleep?”

“It’s hard to find a comfortable position, it always is.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she murmured and pressed a kiss to his bare chest. “I am going to make some tea – want some?” He nodded and she moved off, flicking the kitchen lights on as she went about it.

Minutes later, Neal wandered back into the house

“It’s so good to have you back, I almost can’t believe it. It’s like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from,” she said quietly at the wall as she dropped teabags into a pair of mugs. 

“I think I feel the same way.”

“Was it terrible? Where you were?”

He shuddered involuntarily and chided himself. It was in the past, he was over it. “Yes.” He saw her flinch and regretted it, but knew she would not want anything other than the truth. 

“Because of –“ She turned and her hand waved vaguely at the wings on his back. 

“Yes.”

Her face crumpled a little but she did not cry. “When I think of where Peter found you, how he found you, it makes me want to – “ 

“Matthew Keller paid for what he did,” Neal said, his voice barely audible. He still regretted doing it; it was a hard thing to take a life, but he’d reconciled himself to the fact that he had no other choice – other lives, Peter’s among them, were hanging in the balance.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up,” Elizabeth said as the kettle whistled. 

“You deserve to know what happened, and I want to tell you, but maybe now is not the right time.”

“I can’t sleep either,” she informed him as she poured water into the mugs.

He paused, not sure if he wanted to burden her, but the determination in her blue eyes would not be denied. He picked up a mug of tea, dipping the bag up and down idly, and sighed. “Then I’ll begin with a beginning.”

xXxXxXxXx

**Twenty-six Months Earlier**

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP

Neal woke, flailing at his alarm clock, like every other morning, and swearing to buy another one. He was halfway out of the bed before he realized he had made a mistake – he wasn’t going in to the office today. He didn’t have to go in to the office ever again – yesterday had been his last day on the anklet. 

He pushed the covers aside and sat up, raising his now anklet-free left leg to look at it. He grinned like a mad, grinning thing at it, and contemplated going back to sleep, then decided against it. Even though he didn’t start his new job as a security consultant until the following week, he still had lots to do. He’d made plans to meet Peter and Elizabeth for lunch at their place, and he had a few errands to run first, not the least of which was to book some movers. 

With his sentence up, Peter and Elizabeth reminded him they could all be less circumspect about their relationship, and so had asked him to move in with them. It was a big development on so many levels – not least of which was the fact that it signified that their being together was more than just a fling. Neal was so happy when they asked him over a month ago, he hardly knew how to respond. Now that the anklet was off for good, he could get started on the rest of his life.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood, then stumbled as a head rush caught him off balance. Well, last night he’d let the Harvard Squad take him out for drinks, and he’d gotten very tipsy, so some residual effect was to be expected. He resolved to punish himself with a good, hard run, and since he no longer had a radius to worry about, he thought a route along the Hudson was in order. He headed for his closet to get dressed, pulling on shorts, running shoes and a loose-fitting t-shirt, and was out the door in less than ten minutes.

The forecast called for a typically hot and sticky late June day, but Neal was still surprised to feel a bit light-headed at about his third mile. The sun was already high in the sky, beating down on the back of his neck as he ran, and while at any other time, he would have welcomed its warmth, today it made the skin along his neck and shoulders feel tight and uncomfortable. He slowed to a walk and finally stopped, bending at the waist with his hands on his knees. His vision was going white around the edges all of a sudden, and it seemed as if the ground was wavering, jittering, coming up to meet him. Blinking hard, he straightened and stumbled over to a nearby water fountain, took hands full of cold water and doused his face, neck and head. It did little to clear his vision, and to add insult to injury, he was suddenly feeling dizzy and nauseated.

He stumbled to a nearby park bench to sit, barely making it. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, and had broken out in a cold sweat as chills overtook him. Most alarming of all, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain between his shoulder blades that literally made him cry out. 

_What’s happening?_ he thought as his vision tunneled. He thought he heard someone say something, looked around in a panic to find a young woman looking at him, her eyes frightened. She was talking to him, but he could not hear her.

 _Peter,_ he wanted to say to her, _find Peter Burke,_ but another stab of excruciating pain bowed his back, turning the words into a scream, and then he knew no more.

\----

_”Sir? Sir! What is your name?”_

Neal heard their voices talking to him, but he was unable to respond. Talking was impossible. Even breathing was difficult. The pain was so all-consuming it obliterated everything.

_”Is he still conscious? Does he even know where he is?”_

_“Sir!”_

_“Jesus, his heart rate’s through the roof. Can we get this man some morphine?”_

_“He’s already had 10 units.”_

_“Give him another three.”_

He felt his arm move as someone brushed past to administer the drug through the IV and cried out in pain. Every touch, every contact was agony on his flushed, over-sensitized skin.

“Please,” Neal moaned through gritted teeth. He thought his teeth might shatter.

_”We’ve got to get his temperature down before he seizes. Strip him and get the ice packs.”_

He felt cooler air on his body – was he naked? He had no care or thought for modesty.

_”Jesus fucking Christ, what IS THAT?”_

_“I don’t know, I don’t know. John, you ever seen anything like this?”_

_“Is it under the skin? I don’t – get a portable x-ray in here, nurse.”_

_“No wonder he’s in agony, shit!”_

A hand on Neal's shoulder blade resulted in a flash of pain so much worse than before, he screamed and shook and lost control of his bladder. Before he passed out, he thought he was able to say something, but he wasn’t sure.

_”Did he say his name was Peter?”_

\----

Neal's existence was reduced to the times he was awake and in pain, and the times the drugs made him unconscious, and he was still in pain. He was unable to speak, move, or think. His body temperature remained at a constant 106F no matter what they did. They didn’t think he’d live through the night. They didn’t know how he was still alive.

Time became meaningless. So did existence. He was no longer even sure who or what or where he was. The only constant was the pain.

\----

Voices. Voices murmuring.

_”We still don’t know what they are?”_

_“Osteochondroma?”_

_“In an adult male? And have you ever seen them grow this fast?”_

_“They’ve grown by at least 50% since last night.”_

_“Have they been scanned since last night?”_

_“Here’s what we got this morning.”_

_“I don’t – wait, have you looked at this, John? Really looked at it? It looks like –“_

_“Yeah. I know. What the hell is going on here?”_

_“I thought I read a journal article about this – a case in Kolkata.”_

_“The way they’re growing – they’ve invaded the bone, started generating blood vessels, even nerves – there’ll be no way to remove them without severe damage.”_

_“But they’re clearly killing him.”_

_“There must be SOMEthing.”_

_“I guess we’ll have our own journal article before long.”_

_“Hell of a way to get published.”_

\----

They had him lying on his side – whatever was growing out of his back made it impossible for him to lie in any other position. This made other things difficult, of course, like administering the drugs. And putting him into the restraints – extra-long ones to prevent him from thrashing around too much and hurting himself.

When he started hallucinating Kate sitting with him, he knew he didn’t have long. And he knew he had to get away – get back to Peter and El before it was too late.

The restraints were easy to slip – he was still Neal Caffrey, after all. He clumsily pulled the IV and the catheter out, watched dully as the blood seeped from his arm. He shook his head. He needed to get to Peter. 

He left with no resistance – no one stopped him or even looked up as he passed by. He didn’t even stop to consider why. His mind was working too much or not enough, his thoughts barely forming into coherence. All he knew was his goal – he needed to get to Peter.

He was vaguely aware that his arm was dripping blood from where the IV had been inserted. He cradled it against himself so it would be less noticeable.

He made it to the exit at last, and found himself in a parking structure. How? He didn’t know, didn’t care – he needed to get to Peter.

He found the street. It was deserted. It was the middle of the night. Finding a cab would be a bitch. He almost got to the corner before he passed out.

\----

“Neal?”

“Peter?”

“Nah, buddy, not Burke.”

“Can you find him? I need him.”

“I tried, but I couldn’t. Listen, you’re sick, really sick. We should get you some help.”

“Not the hospital. They think I’m a freak.”

“No, not the hospital. Somewhere safe though, all right? I know a place.”

“Somewhere safe?”

“You know it.”

“Thanks, Matthew.”

\----

More voices, whispers, but Neal could hear them clearly. He couldn’t move, but he could still hear.

_“The surgery could kill him.”_

_“If we don’t do the surgery, it kills him. You’ve seen this before.”_

_“He’ll never survive the anesthesia, not with his blood pressure where it is.”_

_“Then do it without.”_

_“You can’t be serious.”_

_“Tell me again what choice we have?”_

_“Christ, Keller, you’re a cold motherfucker._

_“That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Get cuttin’, Doc.”_

Luckily, Neal passed out before the screaming became too bad.

\----

When Neal woke again – _really woke_ – he knew, somehow, that a lot of time had passed since he was last aware. He wasn’t sure how he knew, perhaps the way the sunlight played in the room, but he knew. 

He’d been sleeping on his side and was surprised to find no restraints binding his limbs. He took a quick mental inventory, moved his muscles experimentally. Overall, he’d seen better days – there was a persistent nausea and a lingering stiffness in his body that spoke of being confined in a bed for a long time. But he was no longer feverish, which was a relief, and his brain no longer suffered the dullness that only heavy narcotics could bring. He chanced sitting up, pushing with his arms against the bed he was on – he noticed the clean sheets with passing interest – until he was sitting upright. 

The room was nondescript, with whitewashed walls undecorated by art or even a clock. A sink and cabinet were near the door, as well as a box of latex gloves and a wheeled stool. A hospital, or clinic, then. The window was small, unbarred, facing an internal courtyard or airshaft. It was a partly cloudy day outside; the sun’s rays were obscured by a bank of clouds.

Looking down on himself, he noted that he was wearing a pair of loose sweatpants but no shirt. There were mostly-healed scratches all over his chest and abdomen. He had to pee. 

He swung his legs to the floor, hoping to go and find a toilet, and when he got his bare feet flat on the floor, he leaned forwards. He paused – would he have the strength? Only one way to find out. He pushed himself to his feet, teetering on wobbly legs. He took a stumbling step, then steadied himself. 

He felt wobbly, that was for sure; his long illness, what he could remember of it, had clearly taken its toll. He remembered long, feverish nights, interspersed with longer periods when there were no memories, and pain, always the pain: bone-deep and all-consuming. He felt none of that now, surprisingly, and wondered what could have changed. He also felt strangely top-heavy, and wondered if his fevers had left him brain-damaged; he recalled the doctors and nurses at the hospital saying how high they were, how he surely couldn't survive them. He tried another step and then another; the strange top-heaviness he felt was beginning to pass. 

He noticed a small en suite in the corner and he went in, relieved himself. He went to the tiny sink and ran the cold water, washed his hands and then splashed water on his face. There were rough paper towels and he grabbed a few, dried his face, glanced up and finally caught sight of himself in the small mirror. His hair was longer, and he’d grown a beard; his eyes looked a bit sunken and he thought he barely looked like himself. How long had it been, and _WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?_

Behind him, he glimpsed a pale shape. No, not behind him, _on him_. He whirled, too fast, and cried out in pain as whatever-it-was slapped against the door. Muscles contracted, limbs flexed, but his arms and legs haven’t moved. Limbs, limbs - _other limbs_. He had – 

He stumbled from the room, tripped, righted himself, re-balanced more easily as something flared at his back. The clouds obscuring the sun passed, and he caught a glimpse of his shadow. He whirled around again.

There was a pair of wings on his back. 

A pair. Of fucking. Wings.

He stopped moving, standing utterly still, feeling a wave of nausea and he fought against it, tried to breathe deeply through his nose. “Calm yourself, Caffrey,” he muttered, the first words he’d said, and his voice was scratchy and too low in his ears. When he felt marginally calmer, he reached back over his shoulder and touched them for the first time. 

They were – soft on the surface, downy, the skin loose and warm over hard bone within. His fingertips explored the joint – words failed to describe the physical evidence he was getting; his brain boggled. The wing was joined to him through his skin – no, in his skin, _from_ his skin, a part of him, like his legs, his arms. He startled and the wings reacted, spreading behind him and then calming. He felt them with his hand, could feel his hand on them, and they gave a momentary lift, almost, when they moved. There was a tug there, a pull that was uncomfortable but not painful, as from muscles being used in ways to which they were not yet accustomed. As he moved them, he caught a glimpse of their bottoms from the corner of his eyes. 

They seemed kind of small, for man-sized wings, he thought irrationally, stubby and covered with a snowy down. There appeared to be no primary or secondary feathers, his rational mind realized – he’d studied, he knew the anatomy of birds, having drawn and painted hundreds of them. They’re new, then. 

Well, sure, that made sense – of course his new wings would be covered in down at the outset. 

He thought it might be a good idea if he sat down. It was that or crouch, gibbering, in the corner, and that had never really been his style. 

The wings parted and raised gracefully as he sat on the bed, instinctively moving to accommodate his body, to not be sat on. So, his lower brain seemed to have adjusted to their presence on his body, then. Odd how that happened. How quickly, too.

He heard a key in a lock and realized it was the door to the room. He must have really been in shock if his first thought wasn’t trying to figure a way out of there. He sat up straighter, could feel the wings fan out slightly, as if bracing for something.

The first thing Neal saw coming through the door was a food tray. The second thing – the person holding the tray – made his panic level ratchet up by about a power of ten; the wings reflected his panic too, they stood out and back, reaching, the sudden movement pulling uncomfortably at the muscles in this back and shoulders, across his pectorals.

“Matthew Keller,” Neal said, his voice a lot calmer than he felt.

“Good afternoon, Neal. No need to panic.” 

Neal cursed the damn wings for giving his emotions away and tried not to glare at the man. Keller had that smirk on his face he always had when he knew he’d have you in checkmate within five moves, the one Neal had once admired, but had in recent years grown to hate. He set the tray down on a small table beside the table. Neal could smell warm, savory things – chicken and vegetables and fresh bread. His stomach rumbled – he was starving. 

“I brought you some lunch,” Keller said. “You’ll need a lot of protein.”

Neal glanced at it uneasily, torn between his growling stomach and his innate distrust of Keller. 

“Go ahead, the food is perfectly fine,” Keller said, picking up a green bean and tossing it into his own mouth to demonstrate.

Neal pulled the tray onto his lap and took a swig from the bottle of iced tea that was on it, then began to eat. Keller took a seat in the stool across the room.

“Where am I?” Neal said around mouthfuls of chicken. “What’s been done to me?”

“Where you are is immaterial. What has been done is that I saved your life.”

Neal scoffed. “You. Saved _my_ life? Tell me another one.”

“Believe what you want, but it’s true. I found you in quite a delicate condition, and there is no doubt about it, Neal, but you would have died within a day if I hadn’t found you.”

Neal stared at him and, for once, saw that the man was telling him the truth. “How? How did you save my life?”

“I think the more important question is what has happened.”

“No, the more important question is why, but I don’t expect you to tell me.”

Keller chuckled. “Clever as always, Neal, even after the ordeal you’ve been through. You look good, considering.”

“Considering what, exactly? What happened to me?”

Keller smirked, clearly tickled that Neal's line of questioning had come back around to where he wanted it. “You have wings.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious. In your own inimitable way, you’ve really gotten to the core of it.”

Keller outright laughed. “Part of you thinks I somehow did this to you. But I didn’t, I assure you.”

“Then what is it?”

“You’re what we call a ‘seraph.’”

Neal laughed, incredulous. “A seraph? As in seraphim and cherubim? What the fuck, Keller?” 

“Well, I didn’t coin the phrase, though it is apt. Take a look at yourself.”

Neal calmed down with an effort, inclined his head, ready to hear what Keller had to say. 

“No one knows how it happens, or why, but around two years ago, a number of people began to fall ill. They started sprouting growths on their backs, boney tumors that were untreatable, that killed nearly every victim. At first, it was thought to be some horrible virus, or bioweapon, but the spread was random, and rare. The going assumption now is that it’s a genetic disease; what triggers it is still unknown. Scientists are trying to isolate the gene that will predict it, but it’s been slow-going. So has treatment and prevention.

“But one thing was discovered recently that has saved lives – the fact that these growths are not tumors, but actual limbs. Wings. Once they form, they grow outward, trying to flourish, but they do more damage than anything, rupturing the skin and muscle. The process is… horrific, and almost always fatal. If the fevers that accompany the transformation don’t kill a person, the shock and infections when the wings emerge do. Few have survived it, until recently.”

“What happened recently?”

“Once it was determined what the growths were, it was also found that they could be freed through a surgical procedure. More people have since survived. Not a lot, but enough that scientists can learn from them.”

“Learn what?”

“Where it comes from, why. There’s a huge buzz in certain circles.”

“Why have I never heard of it? Something like this ought to have triggered some sort of worldwide sensation.”

“Efforts to keep it under wraps have been extensive and largely successful. Believe me, you don’t want to see what happens when people find out. If they’ll line up for Jesus on a potato chip, what do you think they’ll do to a real-life angel? There was a girl in Brazil… well, let’s just say it didn’t end well for her.”

Neal flinched, then wondered if Moz, with all his conspiracy theories, had ever caught wind of it. “Doesn’t sound like it ends well for anyone.”

Keller shrugged.

“And the name? Seraph?”

Keller shrugged again. “Some clever doctor along the way with an angel kink, no doubt. No one knows where it came from, but it’s stuck.”

“And you? Where are you in all of this? Why are you helping me?”

“I never said I was helping you, but yes, I did save your life. You know I have a thing for preserving beauty.”

Neal stopped eating, suddenly feeling queasy under the look Keller was directing at him. He was used to Keller’s leers by now, but this one was different, filled with a sort of predatory hunger. He felt suddenly exposed and wished he had a shirt on. He straightened his back and set the tray aside, finished the iced tea. “What happens now?”

“You’ve still got a lot of healing to do. The wings have been freed, but they’ll continue to grow some, and you’ll generate feathers as well. It’s a long process.”

“Long. How long have I been here?”

“Six weeks.”

Neal's brain boggled. _Six weeks?_ His thoughts turned immediately to Elizabeth and Peter, they must be so worried about him. “Six weeks?” he repeated, and got to his feet. He felt dizzy, suddenly.

“What are you doing?”

Neal looked at him like he was crazy. “I have to go, I have… I have ...” _He had what, a life? People who cared about him? What about now?_

“You have to think about your own safety and the safety of those you love,” Keller said quietly and Neal looked at him with an odd expression. 

“That’s an uncharacteristically sympathetic response coming from you.”

Keller stood then and looked at his watch. “Sympathy has nothing to do with it. You’re an investment, Caffrey.”

“Investment? In what?” Neal said and his words were slurred, this tongue suddenly too thick and sluggish. He blinked his eyes, hard, realizing his vision was tunneling. He glanced over at the food tray. “The food?” 

Keller laughed. “…was not drugged, I didn’t lie. I didn’t say anything about the iced tea, though.”

Neal sank to his knees, shaking his head. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” he muttered in the direction of the floor. He fell over onto his side, staring at Keller’s shoes. They walked slowly towards him and Keller crouched down. Neal tried to move his head but couldn’t; Keller’s finger under his chin did it for him.

“You’re a big investment, Neal, my biggest so far. But for now, relax – it’ll be a while before I cash in.”

\----

How much longer Keller kept him drugged up, Neal would never be able to tell. Whatever it was they had him on kept him cowed and calm, so that he did not give them any trouble, and he slept a lot. He rarely saw Keller again, mostly a staff of about half a dozen people who came in to check on him, made sure he was fed and clean. 

The wings did continue to grow, the feathers filling in over the course of his confinement. They itched, and his new joints ached, and sometimes the fevers returned too. 

It was during one of these fevers that Neal began to dream of home. What resonated with him at first, what _killed_ , was how normal it was – more memory than dream. He hadn’t been able to think of Peter and Elizabeth – he’d been so sick, and on those occasions when he’d felt better, he’d viciously suppressed the memories, knowing they would only lead him into despair. But this… this…

_It was Pancake Sunday, and he was helping Elizabeth out by juicing some oranges. He stood at the kitchen island, barefoot and in pajama pants, Peter’s “FBI Agents Do It in Triplicate” apron on, the activities of his lovers behind him a happy counterpoint._

_Then suddenly he was assailed by excruciating pain and he cried out, falling to his knees on the kitchen floor. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe through it, but it kept coming in waves, each one worse than the last. He was soon lying on his side on the floor, writhing in agony as the wings tore their way out of his body. His entire torso was soon covered in blood, his elbows slipping on the tile floor._

_“Neal?!” Elizabeth said from her spot at the stove._

_“Elizabeth!” he moaned._

_“I said, did you want blueberries in yours?”_

He woke with a start and became immediately aware there was a hand on his body, and realized he was no longer alone in his tiny room. He raised his eyes and saw Keller seated on the bed beside him, looking at him with a peculiar expression on his face. It was part fascination, part disgust, and he ran his fingers through the soft down that still remained at the tops of Neal's wings; he’d been shedding it lately, and there was soon a cloud of down in the air around them, caught up in the air currents in the space.

“Keller,” Neal began, trying to keep his voice even despite the hammering of his heart in his chest. 

“Do they hurt still?”

“Yes,” Neal admitted; the drugs made escape impossible, so lying was irrelevant.

“Can you move them?”

Neal felt them fanning out behind him; his control of them was improving, though he winced as the healing surgical scars pulled. Keller’s hand came down again on Neal's hip, just above the waistband of the pajama pants he wore, resting against Neal's flushed skin and then trailing along his abdomen. Neal could not control his recoil.

“Is there something you wanted?” Neal said. Keller’s eyes flicked up to his, and Neal saw that his pupils were dilated with desire. He looked down and saw the hard-on in Keller’s pants. 

“It’s a miracle, you know,” Keller breathed.

“You’ll forgive me if I disagree,” Neal said warily and sat up, forcing Keller’s hand to fall away. Keller stood self-consciously and turned to go, his face reddening. 

“We’re moving you out in a week. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Moving me where?” Neal asked but Keller had already gone.

\----

One week later, Keller returned with two burly orderlies at his elbow, who held Neal down – unnecessarily, since the drugs kept Neal totally compliant – and shot him full of something else, something that almost paralyzed him. They wrapped a blanket around him and then put him into a wheelchair and wheeled him outside. It was the first fresh air Neal had encountered in weeks, and he found himself entranced by it, and the yellow leaves on the trees. 

“It’s Fall?” he murmured, though no one answered him. He was placed in the backseat of a minivan and strapped in, then one of the orderlies got in beside him. Keller was in the passenger seat, and the other orderly drove. It wasn’t until they got onto a bridge that Neal realized he’d been in Staten Island all this time. So close to home and yet... “Peter,” he whispered plaintively, falling over slightly so that his forehead leaned against the tinted glass of the window beside him. 

He lost more time after that, and when he woke, they were driving on an Interstate, the sound of the tires on the road surface strangely soothing. 

“He’s awake,” the man seated next to him said. Neal noticed he was reading a copy of _National Geographic_. How random.

There was the sound of leather creaking and Keller turned around to look at Neal. “Nice to see those baby blues.”

“Is it?” Neal replied, moving his head to look at him. He felt strange – the drug that had kept him immobile had worn off, but he was still drugged, still felt the sluggishness that had become too familiar over the last weeks. “Or are you more interested in protecting your ‘investment’?”

Keller shrugged. “You always were smart, Neal.”

“Where are we going?”

“Your new home.”

“Don’t you mean my new prison?”

”Potayto, potahto. Call it a safe haven.” 

“Safe for whom?”

Keller scowled and waved his hand and the man beside Neal prepped a syringe. He didn’t know how long he stayed out.

\----

Neal was aware of being manhandled out of the van and transported along a short walk… somewhere. The cry of seagulls alerted him to the fact they were near the ocean – or a landfill. The stuttering of the wheelchair’s wheels led him to conclude they were on a dock. He passed out before they put him on board the boat.

He woke again, aware of the gentle swaying of being at sea. He felt almost normal – either he was developing a tolerance for the drugs or they’d given him the wrong dosage. He found himself in a tiny cabin, alone, lying on a bed. There was a single porthole opposite, so he forced himself to his feet and stumbled over to it. He saw nothing but ocean, though the gulls’ cries were still overhead, so they couldn’t have been that far out. Finding his legs wobbly, he sank to the floor and sat on his knees. His guards found him there an hour later, asleep, and put him back to bed.

The sensation of hands at his throat woke him again, and he started, his right hand coming up and grabbing at a wrist as his eyes opened. He looked up, saw one of his captors above him, who easily twisted his arm away. Another needle-prick in his arm and he was gone.

\----

The final time Neal woke from his drug-induced state, he found himself lying on another narrow bed in another brightly-lit, whitewashed room, though the sound of the gulls was still present. The room was small – about the size of the Burkes’ bedroom, and one entire wall was taken up by floor to ceiling windows, looking out at a windswept sky; he could hear breaking waves somewhere close by. 

He sat up and immediately regretted it. Luckily, there was an en suite nearby and he was able to reach the toilet before he vomited. Only bile came up, but at least he felt better afterwards. 

When he was done – or rather, when he was convinced the dry heaves had subsided – he splashed water on his face and then shoveled some into his mouth directly from the tap. When he emerged, someone was standing in the open door of the room.

“Hello,” the man said with a small smile and a wave. He was shorter than Neal, maybe five-foot-seven, compactly-built with an olive, deeply tanned complexion. He was older, perhaps 60, with close-cut, wiry curls, black flecked with gray. His eyes were friendly, if tired-looking and serious, and he wore a pair of reading glasses that had one arm taped on, so that they hung crookedly on his face. And, most importantly, the man had a pair of wings too. 

Neal gasped when he saw them, took an involuntary step forward. “Y-you’re like me!” he exclaimed.

The man smiled, twisted so that Neal could see his wings, fluffed them out as if showing them off, and then turned back around. His wings were different – where Neal's had remained an almost snowy white, with shadings of pearl grey and black spots on the tips of his primary and secondary feathers, this man’s wings were a dark, rich and glossy brown lined with black, like a sparrow or a hawk, and Neal glimpsed a cream-colored down underneath.

“Yes, yes I am,” he said, his voice almost a laugh. Neal noticed he held a book in one hand, and that he was dressed in a vest of some sort, that accommodated his wings but left his arms bare, and that he was barefoot. At his throat he wore a hand-hammered silver necklace that dipped down to the hollow of his throat, thick, smooth and sleek, though Neal thought it would have been better suited to a woman. With a jolt, he recalled his encounter on the boat and his hand went to his own throat – he was wearing one as well.

“I’m Ben, by the way. Ben Morgenstern.” His voice, when he spoke, was deep but scratchy, whether from disuse or some other reason, Neal couldn’t tell; he had a pleasant manner, and a friendly face, and Neal instantly liked him. 

“Neal Caffrey.” Neal took a step forward and held out his hand. Ben shook it, his grip solid and strong. “You’re a guest of Keller’s too?”

A complicated look crossed over Ben’s face then, part grief, but also part resignation; Neal didn’t know what to make of it. “You could say so.”

“What is this place?”

“A lodge, on an island off the coast of Maine. We’re pretty far out, probably 12 or 15 miles. But the views are gorgeous, and the food is good.” He smiled then, and walked down the hallway, leaving the door to Neal's room open behind him. 

Not having anything else to do, Neal followed him down the hall, which had a number of doors leading to other bedrooms similar to the one Neal had just left, all empty. At the end of the hall was a large room, like a great hall, decorated with hunting trophies and rich, antique Turkish rugs. The ceilings were high, perhaps thirty feet, and there was a gallery above lined with many bookcases. The outward-facing wall was made up almost entirely of windows and large glass doors, which had been opened to allow the cool sea breezes in. Beyond them was a vast flagstone terrace that looked out over the sea. From here, it appeared to drop right into the ocean, though Neal thought it was an optical illusion. Neal was immediately reminded of the spy’s house at the end of _North by Northwest._

He found Ben standing at a low balustrade at one end of the space, looking out at the ocean.

“Beautiful view isn’t it?” Ben remarked as Neal came up to stand beside him. Neal noticed that there was a 50-foot drop off beyond the terrace down a sheer cliff-face, with the ocean lapping at the sandy beach below. “The main house was built in 1895, but these quarters were added in the 1930’s when the place was turned into a hotel. Matthew spent a lot of money to turn it back into a house.”

“I see that,” Neal said, turning to take in the place. Behind them he saw another house, larger than this one, situated at the top of the cliff, perhaps a half mile away. That one was a sprawling, four-story mansion built in a neo-Renaissance style, with at least 60 rooms, and Neal whistled, low. Post-prison life had clearly agreed with Keller.

“I see you two have met, that’s good,” a voice said from behind, and Neal stiffened as he noticed Keller standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Ben, will you give us a few?”

Ben nodded and disappeared inside the house, and Keller strolled out to stand beside Neal. “What do you think?”

“Who’d you have to kill to score this place?” 

Keller laughed. “No one, you’ll be surprised to learn. Business has been good the last few years.”

“Clearly.” He turned to stare out at the water; he had nothing to say to Keller, though he had a thousand questions.

“You’ll like it here, Neal, it’s comfortable. There’s an entire library, and a gym downstairs. I’ll have paints brought in for you if you like, to keep your skills sharp. The morning light is exquisite.”

“Is that why I’m here, then? You’re trading in forgeries now?”

“Not even close.”

“And Ben? Who’s he? Another prisoner of yours?”

“Ben, like you, is a rarity, and is protected here.”

Suddenly, Neal understood. “You’re collecting seraphs, aren’t you? Why?”

“I would think that would be fairly obvious.”

Neal felt ill suddenly. “We’re valuable,” he said, his voice wavering. 

Keller tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Like I have said, you’re an investment.”

“You bastard, you’d traffic in humans to make a buck?”

“No, but I’d traffic in rare creatures such as yourself for a lot of bucks – several million, if I play my cards right. You’re no longer human, Neal. We passed that exit a few miles back.”

“Son of a bitch!” Neal spat, his disgust transforming into anger in a microsecond as he saw red. He pulled his right arm back and landed a vicious right cross on Keller’s jaw. 

Keller stumbled back from the force of the blow, but soon righted himself, and Neal braced for a fight that did not come. Instead, Keller spat blood on the flagstones and looked at Neal, his eyes narrowing. From his pocket he pulled what looked like a small television remote control. Holding it in his right hand, he pointed it at Neal but then paused. “You know, I was hoping not to have to use this, but what the hell.” 

His thumb depressed one of the buttons. Neal heard a high-pitched whine and then suddenly his entire body – every nerve ending, every muscle – felt like it was exploding with pain. It was a pain of white-hot intensity, radiating out from the collar at his throat, and was so all-encompassing that he literally thought of nothing else. Mercifully, it also lasted a short while. 

When Neal came to his senses, he was lying curled on his side, panting; he also noticed with some embarrassment that he had lost control of his bladder. 

Keller was crouching over him. “Sorry I had to do that, Neal, but you needed to see that I mean business.” Neal noticed the sweat that had accumulated on Keller’s upper lip, the gleam in his eyes that he was quite familiar with, from the days they’d run together back in Europe. He wasn’t sorry – not by a longshot. 

Keller gestured at his own neck, nodded at the collar Neal wore. “You like it? Designed it myself – call it my insurance policy, to make sure my investments remain protected. You step out of line, I hit that button. You try to escape, the small amount of HMX embedded inside it will blow your fucking head off. Try to remove it, the HMX explodes. Stray too far from the island, the HMX explodes.”

“That’s some insurance policy if it destroys your investments,” Neal said, his voice unsteady. 

Keller shrugged, “It’s a cost of doing business, and one I can live with.” He rose. “Behave, Neal, and no further harm will come to you,” he said as he left. 

Neal rolled over onto his back, his wings splayed behind him, and stared up at the clouds passing by overhead. How the hell was he getting out of this one?

\----

Neal limped back to his room, where he took a shower and shaved off the beard that had grown on his face over the last several weeks of his illness and subsequent recovery/imprisonment with Keller. He tossed his soiled clothes in a corner and dressed in a pair of linen drawstring pants he found in the dresser that had been provided. He saw there were some additional garments in there – probably shirts or vests similar to what Ben had been wearing, but it seemed like his body temperature had been running higher than normal since his transformation, and he preferred as few clothes as possible. Besides, the garments seemed complicated to get on, and he didn’t feel like bothering with them at the moment. 

Feeling antsy and stir-crazy, he also realized that he hadn’t had any exercise for several weeks, so he did a few reps of push-ups and sit-ups, trying to work off his residual anger with Keller. He was just about to rise to take another shower when he noticed Ben standing in the doorway again.

“Hi,” Ben said uneasily. “I see you’re exercising – that’s good. You’ll need to get your strength up.”

Neal got up and wiped his face and chest on the damp towel he’d used earlier, and stared at the man. “They set up dinner on the terrace. If you’re interested,” Ben said and then retreated as he’d done earlier.

Neal followed and took a seat at a table that had been set for two – so he and Ben were the only seraphs in Keller’s collection so far – and served himself a pile of salad. He supposed the food could be drugged, which was clearly not beyond Keller, but he doubted it. The explosive shock-collar was a much better deterrent from escape than drugs. 

“I’m sorry. About before,” Ben said, watching him eat. He fingered the collar he wore delicately, and Neal's fingers went up to his own, wincing as he touched the tender flesh there – the thing had left a slight electrical burn that chafed.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You couldn’t have predicted what would happen.”

“But I could’ve warned you about it. I didn’t think of it. I was – I was just happy to have someone else to talk to.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A while, a long while. But in a way that’s OK, because I’m safe here.”

“That what he tells you?”

“It’s what I believe. When I – when I _changed_ , the doctors, they said they wanted to study me, to figure out why – why this happens. But I know better. The CIA were going to take me to Area 51 or something, to dissect me. Or worse. Matthew helped me get away.”

“Did he? So what, you’re loyal to him for that reason?” If Neal was going to have to be on his toes with Ben, he wanted to know now.

Ben scoffed. “Hell no. Keller’s a sadistic bastard, a thief, and a double crosser. But this was the lesser of all evils. The second I have a chance, I’m out of here. I just have to figure out the angle.”

Neal smiled, a genuine smile. 

“What?” Ben asked, smiling back.

“Nothing. You just remind me of someone I know.”

\----

Neal was dreaming again. 

_“What’s this?” Neal asked, staring dubiously at the bowl on the tray Peter held out to him._

_“Chicken soup. What does it look like?”_

_Neal shrugged – it seemed slightly too green to him. He pushed himself up in the bed and coughed into his hand – he was just getting over the flu. “I’ll take your word for it.”_

_He sat forward as Peter plumped up his pillows for him and then settled back, smiling up at Peter as he set the tray down across his lap. Beside the bowl was a small dish of oyster crackers and he sprinkled a few over the top. Peter sat down at the foot of the bed and watched him as he tasted the soup, which was, indeed chicken, if a bit heavy on the parsley and dill. Still, it was delicious, and the fact that Neal hadn’t eaten for more than a day suddenly made itself known, and Neal had consumed half the bowl before coming up for air._

_“You like it?” Peter said, beaming proudly, and Neal smiled up at him._

_“Very tasty,” Neal said, wiping at his chin with the back of his hand. Peter leaned forward, took the napkin off the tray and held it to the corners of Neal's mouth, dabbing there. Neal caught Peter’s wrist before he could take it away and pulled his hand to his face, kissing the palm. “Thanks for cooking for me. And for taking care of me when I’m sick.”_

_Peter rested his open hand against Neal's face gently for a few seconds before pulling it away. “It gives me an unnatural amount of pleasure to do it,” he confessed._

_“Does it?”_

_“It’s nice to be needed. You’re always so… self-sufficient.”_

_Neal was unspeakably touched._

_“Well, I’d better get back downstairs and clean up. Maybe you’ll feel up to coming down for dinner later.”_

_“Maybe.” Neal watched him go, and suddenly his heart felt like it was breaking, like he wasn’t going to see him again. And just as suddenly, the room morphed and changed into the tiny room at the clinic in Staten Island where Keller had been keeping him after his surgery, and he felt again the crushing grief to have been parted from those he loved, and the pain from his healing wings, and the constant dizziness from the drugs._

_The drugs, the hated drugs. They kept him docile, they made him feel sick, and there was nothing he could do about it; he had never felt so helpless in his entire life. Soon everything began to swim in his vision, and then it all went black._

Neal woke shaking, the illness he’d felt in the dream leaving him feeling breathless and weak. Looking up, he noticed that the sky outside was marginally lighter; the sun would soon be up. Rising from the bed, he went to the bathroom and took care of business, then padded out of the unlocked door of his room, up the hall and out onto the terrace, staring out at the ocean and imagining he could still smell the herbs on Peter’s hands from preparing the soup.

Ben found him sitting on the balustrade two hours later and handed him a cup of coffee. “It’s cream and sugar,” he said sheepishly as Neal took it and sipped at it gratefully. “I didn’t know how you take it.”

“Thanks,” Neal said, his voice sounding hollow in his own ears. 

“There’s breakfast.”

Neal lacked the energy or will to respond or even to be polite, so he just sipped at the coffee. 

“What’s wrong?” Ben asked, the question almost drowned out by the gulls crying overhead.

“I had a dream,” was all Neal could say, but Ben nodded understandingly and squeezed Neal's shoulder, attempting to comfort him. He moved over to the low wall and sat down sideways, facing Neal. 

“I know it’s hard, kid, thinking of what you left behind, believe me I do, but you’ll find ways to cope, I promise. I did.”

“Yeah? How?”

Ben smiled a shy, crooked smile, like the one Neal had seen the day before when they’d first met, and stood. He stepped up onto the top of the balustrade, winked at Neal and then dove head-first down the steep cliff face.

Neal surged to his feet, his coffee cup falling to the flagstones with a crash, and leaned out over the wall with his hand out as if he could catch the older man, but what he saw literally took his breath away. Ben unfurled his wings and, about twenty feet from the beach below, straightened his back out, flapped his wings once, then again, and was soon gliding out over the breakers. He flew another hundred yards out then wheeled back, rising upward until he was level with Neal. As he came in for a landing on the terrace, he winked again, hovered for an instant, and then landed on his feet gracefully. 

“Y-you can _fly_?” Neal asked, astounded.

“Correction: _we_ can fly. Otherwise, what the hell good are these goddamned things?” His wings fluttered restively behind him before settling, finally, behind him.

“You _have_ to teach me,” Neal begged, taking a step forward.

“All in good time, Neal. But first thing’s first – you’re going to need to be a lot stronger if you are ever going to try, so come in for breakfast. It’s waffles today!”

\----

After breakfast, Neal waited patiently for Ben as he retreated to their living quarters for several minutes, returning some time later with a box that he pressed into Neal's hands. “Running shoes?” Neal asked, perplexed.

Ben looked at him like he’d just asked him why the sky was blue. “Yeah, running shoes.” Neal noticed he had a pair on as well, and then the older man began to stretch. “Flying takes it out of you like you will not believe, and truth be told, Neal, you’re a pretty skinny guy.”

Neal looked down at himself, affronted.

“Now, now, don’t get your panties in a twist – you’ve also been very ill the last several weeks and have lost muscle mass and tone. The first thing we do is build your endurance, then we begin weight training.”

“Weight training?” Neal frowned – he’d never been one for that, preferring running or swimming to keep fit. He sat down and began to pull the sneakers onto his bare feet.

“Of course. You need a strong core to fly.” He hunched his own shoulders, and Neal noticed for the first time that Ben, though shorter than him, was also densely-muscled, with broad shoulders and clearly some very strong arms. He turned as he began to stretch his lats, and Neal caught glimpses, through the gaps in the garment he wore, of mottled, angry-looking scar tissue along the skin and muscles where his wings emerged from his back. Ben turned his head and Neal quickly schooled his expression into a neutral one, but he wondered what could have happened to the man.

“You gonna stretch?” Ben asked and Neal sheepishly got up and prepared for a run.

Ben led him out of the building and down a set of stairs bolted to the cliff face to the beach below. 

Running with wings on one’s back was – different – and took some getting used to. Initially, Neal found they made him feel top-heavy, ungainly, their mass causing more drag than he was used to as the feathers fluttered in the wind. Eventually, he mirrored Ben’s technique of keeping them tight against his body and slightly lowered, which was a bit uncomfortable at first, but made movement easier.

Embarrassingly, he found he was sucking wind after less than three miles and had to stop, a stitch in his side stealing his breath. Looking up, he saw that they’d run about two-thirds of the distance around the island. 

Ben came back to him when he noticed he’d stopped and jogged in place beside him. Neal gave him a sour look. So much for youth and age being an advantage. “You are fit.”

Ben shrugged. “Not much else to do here at the Château d'If. You’ll get there.”

“How is it we can run around down here?” Neal asked, and fingered his collar. “Aren’t these things supposed to keep us near the house?”

Ben shook his head. “On the island. They give us a radius of about half a mile; if we go beyond that –“ He made an explosive noise with his mouth and his hands splayed out to illustrate the consequences. “It allows us to fly a bit further out, and up and away from the house. The collar emits a sound if you go too far, a fair warning if you will.” He pointed at a guardhouse on a cliff in the distance, inland. “The radio tower there controls not only the communications into and out of here, but the signal to the collars. And yes, before you ask, it is heavily guarded. And yes, I have tried, but there is also an alarm that goes off if one of the collars comes within fifty feet of it. Matthew is a very clever jailer.”

“And it doesn’t help that he thinks like a convict.”

“You two know each other, don’t you?”

Neal began to walk along the beach. “We go back a few years, and your estimation of him is correct – he is ruthless and smart. Getting out of here is going to be a challenge.”

“You think you’re up to that challenge?”

“No prison is inescapable,” Neal said, “not unless you let it be.” He began to jog slowly back up the beach. 

\----

It took some weeks for Neal to build his stamina back up, but he did, and was able to run the roughly 5-mile circumference of the island twice without much distress. He put all the weight back on he’d lost during his illness and then some, all of it turning to muscle under the strict regimen Ben, a retired high school teacher and wrestling coach, set up for him. 

When a series of early-Winter squalls buffeted the island and made running less than desirable, he and Ben concentrated more on the weight-training, to make Neal's core stronger, so that the rigors of flight would not damage him. 

One afternoon, in the aftermath of a particularly hard workout, he sat panting on the weight bench, his arms trembling with the strain of it. 

“You’re pushing too hard,” Ben warned.

Neal wiped the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand and shook his head slowly. “I’m not pushing hard enough. I’ve been gone too long. I’ve got – I’ve got people waiting for me.”

Ben nodded, then walked over and began to remove weight from the barbell. “I get it, but you hurt yourself now and it _will_ set you back. No more for today, Neal.”

Neal pushed Ben’s hands away from what he was doing, shook his head. “I need to.”

Ben grabbed his wrist and pushed him away, easily. “And I said no.”

Neal snatched his hand away from Ben and got to his feet. “What do you know about it, anyway?” he said, suddenly angry. “You haven’t even tried to get away.” He made an angry noise and went to leave the gym.

There was a sudden blur of movement and Ben was standing in front of him, his hands on his shoulders. Neal blinked at him, wondering how he’d moved so fast, but Ben was talking. “I know plenty, and believe me, Neal, _you’re not ready_. Don’t you think I want to leave? I had a life too, you know, and a home!” he said angrily, and pushed Neal back into the room.

Neal stood with his hands in fists at his sides, and Ben stepped forward, though he had his own hands up, placating, as if Neal was a spooked horse. 

“I know you’re frustrated, Neal, and you want to get out of here. But this is a marathon, not a sprint. We’ll get maybe one shot at getting out of here, and we have to bide our time until you’re strong enough to make a 15-mile flight across to the mainland. You think you’re capable of that? Do you?”

Neal was looking down at his bare feet. “No,” he was forced to admit, sullenly.

“No,” Ben repeated, his voice thickening. “I get it that you’re hurting, kid, I do. I have a family, a daughter and I –“ he stopped talking. In the three months since Neal's arrival, this was the most Ben had shared about his life before the island. Neal could see him tensing, not wanting to share, swallowing the words and the pain and the regret. “We’ve just got to plan it right,” he finished quietly.

Their eyes met and Neal saw Ben’s determination there, as well as the sorrow he’d been too good at hiding the last weeks and nodded. “Sorry Ben,” he mumbled. 

“Forget it. Now, go take a hot shower – keep your muscles loose. Then come back and teach me more about how to play chess.”

\---- 

After his shower, Neal found Ben in the great room with a book about chess strategy lying face-down in his lap. He was sitting in a wingback chair in front of a fire he’d built and was staring moodily into the flames. Neal took a seat in the chair opposite him with a copy of Ovid’s works in his hands that he began to read quietly, his legs drawn up beneath him.

“My daughter’s name is Juliet,” Ben began several minutes later, apropos of nothing. Neal looked up and saw there were tears in the older man’s eyes. “My wife – ex-wife – is an English teacher, and _Romeo and Juliet_ is her favorite play.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” Neal supplied, wanting to draw him out.

“And she was a beautiful baby, smart and strong and always getting into trouble. She looks just like her mother, luckily, but her personality – it’s all mine.” He smiled fondly and shook his head, remembering. “And was she her Daddy’s girl. We were almost inseparable when I’d get home after school. She used to say she’d marry me some day, said she was my ‘wifey.’”

“Cute.”

“Yeah. So when my wife and I split up, it just about broke Juliet’s heart.”

“I’m sorry, Ben.”

“Hey, these things happen. But when I’d go to visit with her, to take her for the weekends, she’d cry so much when I left that it broke _my_ heart, and I couldn’t take it. It killed me to see her like that, to think I made her suffer, more than it killed me to be apart from her. So when a job opportunity came up in Chicago, I went for it. I packed up and left Queens, and I only saw her on her winter breaks and two weeks every summer. By the time she was 13, she hated me. Hormones, her mother said, but she never really got over it. And I know why – I went away. Once she turned 18, there were no more visits, and soon enough, no more phone calls.”

Ben worried at the binding on the book’s spine with his thumbnail and was silent for a few minutes. “Then one day, she called me, right out of the blue. ‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘I have something to tell you.’ Daddy – god, she hadn’t called me that in years. 

“She told me I was going to be a grandfather, and she wanted her child to know me, and would I come and visit. Well, Neal, I was on the next plane to Orlando, and that’s no lie.”

His next silence lasted several minutes. “That’s when the transformation caught me. I had a connecting flight in Atlanta, I collapsed in the airport, and I don’t even remember most of it. It was weeks later before I even knew my own name, the fevers were so bad. I don’t even know how I survived it, it was too horrible.” He shuddered.

“The scars on your back,” Neal said, realizing now what they were.

Ben nodded. “My wings weren’t surgically liberated like yours were, Neal – they clawed their way out, ripping through skin and muscle and remaking my bones. Like I said, I don’t know how I survived. But I did.” 

“And Juliet?” 

“I never saw her. I couldn’t – let them have her too.”

“What? Why?”

Ben looked at him and raised his eyebrows. “You know what’s in Atlanta, Neal?” Neal shook his head, he couldn’t begin to guess. “The headquarters for the Centers for Disease Control, and believe me, when they got their hooks into a specimen like me, they didn’t want to let me go.”

“No, Ben, surely not.” 

But Ben’s experiences had embittered him, and Neal didn’t think he would change his opinion. “They had to be sure I wasn’t contagious, Neal, and I needed to be studied. They wanted to find out why this had happened to me, and how. Believe me, I wasn’t about to tell them I had a daughter, much less one that was about to have a child of her own, not if they were going to think it was some sort of genetic thing. 

“They knew I wasn’t the only seraph in the world – that’s what they call us, did you know?” 

Neal nodded.

“Some doctor somewhere used to be an altar boy, maybe, but what else are you going to call it when people start sprouting wings all over the world? And they wanted to see what made me tick, how I had survived the transformation and why, and more importantly, if they could predict when it would happen to someone else. They said they wanted to make sure they didn’t have a worldwide epidemic on their hands.”

“Do they? How many people has this happened to? Keller implied there are others.”

“Who knows? And they’re not telling, Neal, believe me. It’d cause a worldwide panic.”

Neal nodded, believing him. He wasn’t sure himself what he’d do when he got out of here – how would people react to his new state? His friends? Peter and Elizabeth? He was no longer sure he’d find acceptance and solace there if he left, but he couldn’t think of that, he wouldn’t. Being free would always be better – he had to believe that, and he himself hadn’t been truly free in more than eight years.

“How’d you get away?” Neal finally asked.

Ben laughed, bitterly. “I walked out. They started forgetting to secure the ward, so I stole a rain coat and waited for my chance. It came during a Christmas party, and I waltzed out the front door. That was two years ago.”

“What’s happened since? How’d you get here?”

“Matthew found me, pretended to be my friend, got me to trust him,” he said, taking a deep breath and standing; the smile on his face was bitter. “Want to help me with my Sicilian Defense?” he offered, changing the subject and strolling over to the large table at the other end of the room where the chessboard had been set up. “I think I might be able to hold you off for ten whole minutes this time, Neal!”

\---- 

The days got shorter and with them Neal's impatience to use his wings. The weather got colder and wetter, keeping them inside most days, and the great hall was the only space where they could both unfurl their wings completely, and they had lately taken to spending their mornings after breakfast there.

“If you can’t keep yourself aloft, you’ll never fly,” Ben was saying. “We have to strengthen your wings now as much as we’ve focused on the rest of your body. Flap!”

Neal almost laughed, but what other term was there for what they were doing? He stretched his wings out to their full span, primary feathers fanning out like fingers, then retracted them and stretched again. Feeling ready to begin this same workout for one more day, he relaxed the wings slightly and then flapped them, pulling his shoulders into it, feeling the familiar tug across his pecs. Again, he flapped them, and again, and imagined they were like his hands, and that he was cupping them, trying to gather the air beneath them and move it, like he might do in a canoe on a pond. 

“Bigger,” Ben called, encouragingly, and Neal lengthened the strokes he was making, tried to make them more graceful.

“Good, just like that. Now – faster.”

Neal picked up his pace, felt his hair moving from the displaced air in the room as the great wings churned at the air. “Faster,” Ben said, and he moved them again and again. “Watch your angle,” Ben said and Neal adjusted himself, bending at the waist more, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. “Good, good. One more and you’ll be up. One more.” Neal closed his eyes and concentrated on his technique, the repetitive movement, the burn in his back muscles. “One more.” In his mind, he was flying, soaring away from here. “One more.”

And then he felt his feet leave the floor.

“Ben!” he shouted, in surprise or alarm, he didn’t really know, but in less than a second he was heading toward the ceiling, and then his head had bashed against it and he forgot himself, stopped moving his wings and fell to the floor. He landed on his feet and fell forward onto his hands and knees, rolled to a stop and lay there, panting.

“You did it!” Ben said from somewhere above him. 

“Ow,” Neal told him. 

Ben held out a hand and helped Neal to his feet, then slapped him on the back. “You did it, you finally did it!”

Neal beamed back at him. 

“Now let’s work on your steering.”

\----

That night, their dinner was delivered to the great hall accompanied by a stack of boxes wrapped in colorful paper. Neal approached them suspiciously, an angry look on his face. “What is this? A joke?”

“Merry Christmas, I suppose,” Ben said, inspecting the tags on the boxes. “This one’s for you.”

“Yeah, Merry Christmas and fuck you, Keller,” Neal spat out and stalked to the other side of the big room to look out of the windows. 

It was Christmas and he didn’t even notice; he’d missed Thanksgiving too, clearly, but also Peter’s birthday and his own. Being on this island was like being on another planet entirely, and to a certain extent, it made it easier on him, made him miss his people less, because here he was a different Neal, one who didn’t have to worry about loneliness and grief and pain. But today, delivered with their dinner, was a great big pile of reminders of what he’d lost, and he had a sudden urge to hit something.

If Ben was affected by this he showed no sign, carefully unwrapping the gifts – his had been wrapped in Chanukah-themed paper – and regarding them carefully.

“It’s mostly clothes and things,” Ben called to Neal, his voice subdued, trying to soothe him. “You want me to open them?”

“Sure, have at it.” Neal waved his hand dismissively, wondering at what kind of head games Keller was playing.

“Here’s a down vest, like mine,” he called to Neal, narrating as he slowly made his way through Neal's boxes. While they needed less-warm clothing than they had been used to prior to their transformation, the winds on the island were still biting, and often filled with rain and sleet this time of year. “Oh, and some oil paints and canvas. That’s right, you said you used to paint, didn’t you? That’ll be fun – maybe you could teach me?”

“Sure,” Neal said bitterly and stared out the window, though all he could see was the reflection of the room he was in since it was completely dark outside, himself in the foreground and Ben behind him. They had nothing but time, after all. 

“Oh, and what’s this?” Ben said, picking up a small, flat item. “Maybe a book or something?” He pulled a corner of the paper back, got a look at what was inside and quickly pulled the paper back into place. “Never mind.”

Neal's eyes rose to look at Ben in the reflection in the windows. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Neal turned and could see that Ben’s face had gone pale. “What is it?” he repeated, striding across the room and taking it from Ben. It was heavy, stiff, hard; he doubted it was a book. He ripped the corner of the wrapping back that Ben had started and saw that it was a silver frame, 8”x10”, and inside it… 

Inside the frame was a picture of Peter and Elizabeth, sitting at a table in a restaurant, speaking with each other, in the middle of eating a meal. It had clearly been taken without their knowledge, and recently, as the holiday décor behind them made perfectly clear. 

“Son of a bitch,” Neal said between gritted teeth, clutching at the frame until he feared he’d break it. He could feel anger and fear growing inside him in equal measure and then he began to shake. 

“Neal?” Ben said, trying to defuse the situation. 

“This is a warning. Keller’s warning me.”

“What?”

“He’s reminding me that he can – and will – hurt the people I love the most if I try to escape. He. Is. Keeping. Me. In. Line,” he said slowly, his anger becoming so all-consuming he could barely breathe. With a low cry, almost a sob, he stalked down the hall to his room and slammed the door shut. Once inside, he stood in the middle of the room and wept for what he’d lost for the first time in six months.

\----

“Neal?” Ben said from outside his door. “I brought you some breakfast, OK? Oatmeal and fruit. And coffee. I’ll just leave it here, by the door.”

Neal lay on his side in his bed and stared at the dresser that stood against the opposite wall, where he’d left the framed photo of Peter and Elizabeth the night before. He must have slept at some point, but he didn’t remember falling asleep, and he didn’t really remember waking up.

In the picture, Peter was looking at Elizabeth as she spoke, his attention on her mouth, his own lips parted in a half-smile. She was gesturing with her fork; she wore that blue dress Neal had helped Peter pick out for their last anniversary. His heart hurt.

“Neal?” Ben called from the other side of the door. “You sure you don’t want any breakfast?”

Neal blinked, realizing some time had elapsed since Ben last knocked. Had he slept again? He didn’t think so. 

In the picture, Peter was smiling. He was without Neal and he was smiling. At something his wife was saying. Elizabeth was making her husband smile while they enjoyed a festive dinner at a New York restaurant. Without Neal.

“Hey, it’s a surprisingly nice day outside,” Ben called through the door some time later. “Wind’s out of the southwest, but not too strong.”

“Leave me alone, Ben,” Neal called miserably. 

“I will if you want, but I was going to say it’s pretty good flying weather.”

Neal surged out of bed to find his boots.

\----

“You sure about this?” Neal said, swallowing uneasily. They stood on the balustrade of the terrace outside the great hall, and had been for the last ten minutes. Neal's wings twitched nervously on his back, unconsciously mimicking the positioning of his arms, which were hanging down and out from his body, fists clenched.

“Mama birds push baby birds out of nests all the time,” Ben pointed out. 

“And baby birds go SPLAT all the time.”

“Listen, we’re not all that far up here.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“And I’ll be right behind you. If I need to help you course correct, I’ll be right there.”

“You can’t carry us both.”

“Relax, it’s mostly gliding.”

“OK. Fine. Yes, let’s do this.”

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Terrific. So, just like I told you, OK? Get your wings up.”

Neal unfurled his wings, gave them a shake and extended them fully. They twitched nervously, but the sensation of the wind in his feathers, pulling at the shafts where they were anchored in his flesh felt like finally scratching an itch that had long plagued him. “OK,” he whispered, rising up on his toes.

“Neal? If it gets too hairy, just aim for the ocean, all right?”

“What? Hairy? Why?”

“Nothing, nothing, forget I said anything. Off with you.” 

Neal gave Ben a sidelong glance and then looked back out over the ocean. Spreading his wings, he gave a quick flap, then another, and then stepped off of the balustrade. 

And he was falling. He flapped his wings desperately, as strongly as he could, and they slowed his descent, but he couldn’t get the proper lift, couldn’t get control of them properly. 

“Ben!” he screamed, alarmed. 

“Flap, Neal!” Ben shouted. “Extend! Extend!”

Neal tried, and managed to rise just a bit, but it didn’t last, he couldn’t get the rhythm right, and he was still falling, the ground coming up to meet him a lot more quickly than he thought, and he wasn’t nearly close enough to the water to be able to use it to break his fall. 

“Ben!” he yelled again, desperate. 

He heard wings behind him and knew it was Ben, coming behind him. Somehow, this gave him a bit of confidence. He flapped the wings again and again, but it didn’t seem to help. He felt hands at his waist, tugging, but he was still falling, and now he was bringing Ben down with him. This was it – they were both going to die but at least maybe it was a huge “fuck you” to Keller, he thought morosely. 

Soon, Ben’s help seemed to be doing something, and Neal felt their descent slow even more, Ben grunted behind him with the strain of it. “Man, you’re heavy,” he muttered, his hands digging into Neal's flesh painfully. But he was still falling, and he didn’t think he’d be getting the hang of it, and damn, but the water was getting closer… and then he realized what Ben was aiming to do, and he closed his eyes. 

“BEEEEEEEEENNNN!!!” Neal shrieked as the man guided him over the ocean and then let him go, to fall more or less harmlessly into the waves with a giant belly flop. 

\----

“I – I – I w-will ha-ay-ay-ate you f-f-fffffforever!” Neal could barely talk for the chattering of his teeth as Ben helped him up the long flight of stairs in the cliff face and back to the house. 

“Come on, you loved it,” Ben said, eyes alight with the hilarity of it. “I know I did. Your face, kid! Oh, I’ll have to bring a camera next time.”

“Th-th-there will be-ee-ee no n-next time.”

“Sure there will. As soon as you’re warm, you’ll want another go. Let’s get you inside for a nice hot shower, eh?”

An hour later, Neal sat with his back to a low fire that Ben had built, wings fanned out to dry. Ben sat behind him, inspecting his feathers and his joints, nodding and making satisfied noises. 

“What’s the what?” Neal asked.

“Not a single feather damaged. That’s good. How do they feel?”

“Sore, but in a good way, like after a workout, you know? Also: wet.” He threw Ben a mock-admonishing glare and then smiled. “Thanks for doing this with me today, I needed the distraction.”

“Sure thing, kid. That was a pretty rotten thing Matthew did, and I’m sorry it happened.”

“Keller takes pleasure in my torment, and he has for years.”

“You go back a long way?”

“We kind of came up together.”

“When you were a conman?” Neal had long ago given Ben the basics of his background.

“Yeah. We met working a backgammon tournament in Europe, hit it off. Two American ex-pats with a certain, shall we say, morally flexible outlook on the acquisition of goods and services?” Neal chuckled softly to himself, remembering. “They were good times, for a short while.”

“Were you lovers?” 

Neal looked at Ben, surprised. 

“What? I’m old, not ancient. I lived in the Village in the 70’s for chrissakes!”

Neal smiled. “OK. But to answer your question, no, we were not lovers. We came close, but then… things changed. He changed, or maybe I did.” He thought for a few seconds and shuddered. “No, he was definitely the one who changed. Anyway, we fell apart. Since then, he’s always been at my heels, harrying me, trying to one-up me, but never really winning. Peter once called him the poor man’s Neal Caffrey.”

“Peter – he’s the one in the photograph.”

“Yes.”

“He’s your lover?”

Neal sighed. “Yes.”

“And the woman?”

“That’s Elizabeth, Peter’s wife.”

“His… wife.”

“Also my lover.”

Ben blinked. “Huh. So… you… and them…”

“Are a threesome, yes.”

“Huh.” 

Neal smiled to see his consternation. “Come on Ben, you lived in the Village in the 70’s, for chrissakes.”

Ben gave him a sour look, but pressed on. “So how does that work, exactly?”

“I – I sometimes struggle to describe it, but we’re a family, you know? I love them and they love me.” Neal got a faraway look in his eyes and didn’t speak for an entire minute. “Or at least, they _did_.” 

“What do you mean?” Ben took up a soft bit of chamois he’d gotten from his own room and began to run it along the base of Neal's feathers, rubbing gently to soak up residual moisture. 

“That picture,” Neal replied, his voice suddenly flat. He opened his mouth to speak a few times, but found he couldn’t. “They were smiling,” he finally said around a large lump in his throat.

“I see.”

Neal hung his head and tried not to think about it. 

“Would you want them to be grieving, then?” Ben ventured after a few minutes.

“Maybe.”

“And you think because they were smiling they weren’t?”

“I want them to miss me as much as I miss them.”

“They do, kid, every day. They miss you in the mornings when the sun comes up and you’re not at the breakfast table. They miss you when they hear your favorite song, or when they make your favorite dinner and you’re not there, or when they buy you a small gift because they know – with all their – that it’s exactly right.” Ben sighed. “They love you, and they will never forget you, until the day they die.”

Neal turned to face Ben, realizing he was talking about more than just Neal's problems, and looked into his face. 

Ben went on, not looking at him. “But life doesn’t stop, it goes on, Neal, whether we want it to or not. It goes on and birthdays pass, and stupid bullshit happens at work, and grocery shopping, and if you’re lucky, you can go on and pretend you’re not dying on the inside. And yeah, you smile, because maybe something strikes you as funny once in a while, and you can forget, for a lousy second, how big the hole inside you is.” 

Ben caught Neal's eye then, and his face crumpled with a smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes, which revealed to Neal more sorrow and regret than he thought existed in the world. 

“Ben, I –“

“They miss you, Neal, believe it.”

\----

“I dunno, Ben,” Neal said uneasily, looking down from their perch atop the highest cliff on the southwestern tip of island. The walk up was long and treacherous, with loose rocks underfoot and the way made more difficult by a Spring snowfall the night before. Where they stood, the ground gave way to a sheer cliff face, the ocean roiling and breaking on the beach below. He looked up; the sky was a deep blue, with the occasional cumulus cloud scuttling across it, blown by steady westerly winds.

Ben scoffed. “You’ll be gliding, Neal. You’ve done it a dozen times now.”

“From the terrace at the house, not from up here!” Neal pointed out. The drop below was easily 250 feet, and there would be no relatively safe landing in the waves to break his fall should he not be able to remain aloft. 

“You can’t catch thermals from back at the house, Neal, it’s not high enough. That’s going to be the key to making it to the mainland – the ability to glide a good part of the way.”

“I know, but –“ Neal stepped to the very edge and swallowed as he contemplated the long fall.

“You need to learn maneuverability up there – this is the best way for now.”

“I know,” Neal repeated. _Still._

“Now sack up and get to it.”

He looked at Ben with a raised eyebrow. “’Sack up’? Really?”

Ben shrugged, winked, and nonchalantly jumped off the cliff sideways; twisting his body in midair, he soared higher on three pumps of his great wings.

“Show off,” Neal grumbled and balanced himself on the balls of his feet with his wings stretched out. Taking a breath, he stepped forward and felt the familiar dropping sensation in his gut as he free-fell for a second, then recovered himself with his wings fully extended. Copying Ben, he churned at the air with his wings and felt a thrill as he maintained his elevation nearly effortlessly. 

“Good! That’s good. Now, angle them up like I showed you. And keep your back straight!” Ben called. Neal nodded and hunched his wings up at their joints, as he might have done with his shoulders to carry something heavy, and held them parallel to the horizon. At last, he found himself gliding. 

“Ben!” he whooped, flying higher. “Look! Ben!”

“Uh-huh, that’s great, kid, don’t get cocky! Now see if you can get down here – there’s a great column if you can catch it.”

Neal adjusted his hips and wheeled gently back. Almost as soon as he was at the same height as Ben, he felt a sudden lift, as if a pair of hands were cupped gently beneath him, keeping him aloft. He was reminded of a time when he was young and his mother would take him to the Y for swimming lessons; how she would have him float on his back with her hands positioned beneath his shoulders and hips while the water buoyed him up. If he bent too much and began to sink, she’d help him adjust with the barest touch of her fingers. Up here, he felt that level of confidence suddenly, and all he had to do was keep his wings at the proper angle and he was floating on the wave of the thermal effortlessly, letting its ebb and flow carry him.

“It’s magic, isn’t it?” Ben said, his voice sounding nearer than he actually was.

All Neal could do was grin stupidly at him. The exhilaration he was feeling made him speechless.

“Think you can try your hand at gliding across the island now?” Ben asked after several minutes. “The air currents will be a bit gentler, and you’ll need the practice.”

Neal nodded, and followed Ben back over the island. They flew close to each other, Neal a bit slower, still unsure of himself, following Ben’s lead and learning technique through observation and practice that a hundred more hours of Ben drilling it all into his head theoretically would never have accomplished. He felt the air currents beneath him like a wave – it was not unlike bodysurfing – and he finally understood that this was something that he could do, that it was achievable. The thought improved his outlook, if only marginally, and for the first time in months, he actually looked forward to the future. 

At length, they flew across the island and out over the ocean beyond it. A high pitched beep soon interrupted Neal’s thoughts, and he turned his head. “Ben?” he called, realizing the sound was coming from the collar he wore.

“We’re getting close to the radius of the collars,” Ben told him. “Time to turn back.”

Nodding, Neal adjusted his angle and attempted to wheel around in a wide arc. But the prevailing winds that had been at their backs worked against him, and he found it difficult. The beeping began to sound louder and faster, amping up his panic. “Ben!” he screamed, feeling himself inching closer to the edge of an invisible barrier the crossing of which would mean his death.

“Dive, Neal!” Ben called to him urgently. “Your momentum will get you through it. Dive! Dive!” With that, Ben demonstrated, pivoting along the axis of his shoulder and rolling, his wings held close to his back. About fifty feet lower, he pulled out of it and came up again, flying effortlessly back towards land with strong movements of his wings. 

Holding his breath, Neal followed suit, folding his wings against his body and hoping it was right. He counted to three quickly in his head, then pushed his wings out and arched his back, crying out with the effort. The wind resistance created more drag than he’d calculated for, and the jarring on his back and pectoral muscles as his free fall was halted pulled at him so savagely he thought he’d pass out. Gritting his teeth, and with tears streaming down his face, he flapped ungracefully through the rest of his descent, hitting the sand of the beach at too steep an angle and finally rolling to a stop.

He lay panting and in pain on his back on the beach, staring at the sky that looked so blue and innocent hanging above him. He’d never before considered the perils and risks hidden in its seemingly benign vastness, and though he knew he’d be up and trying again at his first opportunity to conquer it, he found he had a new and begrudging respect for it. With a pained groan, he pushed himself to a seated position and breathed through the sharp pains in his joints, from his shoulders to his wings, even his ribs. He was joined shortly by Ben, who lent a hand under his arm to help him to his feet.

In the distance, standing at the edge of the cliff top garden at the back of the main house, with unexpected clarity at such a distance, he could see Keller watching them, and it was probably his imagination, but he could swear the man was smiling.

\----

“Ahhh!” Neal winced as Ben prodded at the muscles and tendons along his right wing and shoulder. Luckily, he had not broken anything, but some of his scapular feathers had been torn away when he’d landed, leaving bloodied abrasions. Ben cleaned them up, applied an antibacterial spray, then stood as he began stowing away the First Aid kit.

“You were lucky you didn’t break any blood feathers. But you did really well.” He closed the First Aid kit with a snap and took a seat across from Neal at the library table in the great hall. “Really well. We’ll try taking off from the ground next week, once you’ve rested up some.”

Neal brightened at Ben’s pronouncement. “You think I’m ready?”

“As ready as you’ll ever be. It wasn’t pretty, but you were maneuvering well out there for your first time. How’d you like it?”

“I don’t – I don’t think I have words for it, really. Hard, definitely – one of the most physically challenging things I have ever done. t would be a cliché to say it was better than sex.” He took a deep breath and gave it serious thought. “II think I’d have to say it was like pulling off a long con. Because… just… there’s this culmination of planning, of physical preparation, of mental readiness, and when it all comes together, it’s like a high, and it lasts well beyond the taking and the having and even the payoff. It’s something that stays with you for a while. There’s not a lot… not a lot of things like it.”

Ben had a faraway look in his eyes. “Just wait until your baby girl smiles at you for the first time,” he said, and rose to go and help their guard set up dinner. 

\----

“What’s the plan?”

“What do you _mean_ what’s the plan, Ben? What is the plan?”

Ben bent down and picked up a scallop shell from the sand. It was low tide, so the ring of broken shells, dead seaweed and other detritus from the sea was visible; this shell had survived the general destruction. It had a faint lavender color when he brushed the wet sand off. “You’re going solo.”

Neal leaned forward, as if he hadn’t heard properly. “Solo? Today?” Ben nodded. “I’m not ready. I practically fell out of the sky last week.”

“But you didn’t, you recovered. I think you’ve been ready for weeks, but I’ve been too careful. You’ll never really do well with me there, I think. I’m like a crutch or something.” 

Neal looked at Ben uneasily. 

“Trust me on this, yeah? There comes a time when the baby bird leaves the nest. I think today’s that day for you – for us. If it’s a disaster, then we address it. But I think – I think I’m hindering you more than helping at this point.”

“OK, but I want you to know that I don’t think that’s true,” Neal pointed out.

“Yeah, yeah, Daniel-san, whatever. Get going.”

“Did you just go all Mr. Miyagi on me?”

“What, I’m not allowed the odd pop culture reference?” Neal laughed, then tensed his muscles for takeoff. “And Neal?” Ben called just as he was spreading his wings.

“Yes?”

“Don’t think so much about it – you have the skill, now have fun.”

Neal nodded seriously and took Ben’s advice. Blanking his mind, he stretched his shoulders, took a step forward and just let his body take over. He was airborne in a microsecond, thirty feet off the ground within two seconds, and wheeling back over the beach and Ben’s head with a shouted, “It’s working!” to which Ben made an exaggerated A-OK gesture. 

His friend was out of sight seconds later, and Neal climbed high over the island, soaring back and over its interior. Ben’s advice to just let his body take over had been sound, and Neal found it much easier to maneuver, wheeling back and forth in lazy arcs, gliding atop thermals as if it was effortless. He practiced landing and takeoff a dozen times on a stretch of isolated beach on the eastern shore, until he was able to land lightly on his feet. When he needed a rest, he flew up to the cliff top and sat on its edge, legs dangling over, and stared south, imagining the topography of the coastline between here and Manhattan, and what it would take for him to fly that far. When he was rested, he dove off the cliff and let his wings unfurl in midair, then flew back up and out as far as the collar would allow him, testing its limits, memorizing them. Finally, as the sun reached its zenith in the sky, he once more soared atop a thermal that was situated above the main house, and studied its layout, its architecture, the placement of power generators and the movement of security guards. Neal’s senses had only gotten stronger over the last few months, and his eyes could pick out details from the sky that he wouldn’t have thought possible before –a side effect of his transformation, as was increased speed when he ran and hearing that was much more acute than before. He reasoned that if he and Ben were going to plan an escape from this place – and Neal was getting to be a stronger flyer every week – he was going to have to put his skills at casing a target to work once more and learn as much about this island as he could.

Eventually, Neal began to tire, and felt a pang in his stomach that made him hope he hadn’t missed lunch. He changed his direction and headed back to his quarters, coming in for a landing so soft it barely jarred his ankles. “Ben!” he called, striding across the wide terrace toward the great room, “Did you see me? You were so right! Ben?”

“He’s not here,” said a voice from just inside the house. Neal stopped short as Keller appeared, a smirk on his face.

Neal could feel panic rising. Keller, for the most part, had left his two prisoners alone. Seeing him here now was a surprise, and could not bode well. “What did you – if you hurt him, Matthew –“

“Relax, he’s fine. He’s with the doctor – I thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to have a physical, make sure my investments were staying healthy and fit.”

“Physically, we’re just fine,” Neal said.

“So I’ve seen,” Keller went on, ignoring Neal's sarcasm. “I was watching you fly this morning, Neal – you’re getting quite good. It reminded me of [Reni’s Saint Michael](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Guido_Reni_031.jpg).”

“Only with a lot less swordplay,” Neal said sardonically.

“And I see you’ve put on the weight you lost when you got sick – that too is… good. To see.” Keller put his hand on Neal's bicep, tentatively, the timbre of his voice lowering a few octaves. Neal looked at him and carefully searched his face. Keller’s pupils were slightly dilated, and there were two spots of color on his cheeks; Neal suddenly realized the man was turned on and froze, wondering what to do about it.

There was no doubt that when they used to run together, Keller had an attraction for Neal. Hell, when they met over a backgammon board in Capri, the eye-fucking they engaged in practically burned down the casino. But that evening did not end with them in bed together – thanks to the appearance of a certain _carabinieri_ who’d been pursuing Keller – and when they’d decided to partner on a job a month later, they both agreed that mixing business with pleasure was a bad idea. Eventually, Neal was thankful for that bit of fate’s interference, but apparently the attraction had never faded for Keller.

“I’ve – been feeling healthy,” Neal replied to Keller’s comment, easing the wariness in his body language with an effort. “You need a lot of upper body strength to fly, as it turns out. And a lot of protein.” He strode into the house, past Keller, making his way to the table, where his lunch waited for him. He served himself some salad and salmon, forcing himself to eat though he tasted none of it. “I’ve been meaning to tell you – whoever you’ve got cooking for us is quite talented,” Neal said, aware he may be babbling. 

“I’ll convey your compliments,” Keller said, moving closer to the table and keeping his eyes on Neal's body. 

Neal's wings fluttered along his back, betraying his uneasiness. He cleared his throat and rose. “I should go and shower.” He took a step towards the long hallway where the bedrooms were and Keller stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Keller –“

“You ever stop to wonder what we could have been, Neal?” Keller’s eyes wouldn’t meet Neal's; he rubbed circles into Neal's bare bicep with his thumb.

Neal saw the flash of vulnerability on the man’s face and knew he’d have to nip this in the bud. “Not even once.”

“That’s too bad. We could’ve been something amazing.”

“I doubt it. You lack something I find rather vital in a lover: a conscience.”

Keller’s eyes flashed as they came up to meet Neal's. “You think you’re better than me,” he accused. “You think because an FBI agent fucks you, it redeems you? Washes away the stain?”

Despite his best intentions not to let his emotions get the better of him, Neal could not control the anger in his voice. “No, I think I’m redeemed by my actions and my words. I’m not the one holding two men captive against their will, hoping to sell them to the highest bidder.” 

“Maybe I can be persuaded to keep you instead.”

“You think you get to have me after all that’s happened? It doesn’t work that way!” Neal pulled his arm away and tried to move past Keller.

“Oh, I already have you,” Keller replied, his voice a low growl. He took Neal's arm again and forced him around roughly, pulling him in for a hard kiss, their teeth clashing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Neal said, indignantly, pushing him away.

Keller laughed, a barking, bitter sound, and suddenly Neal could see anger in his eyes, and lust and something un-nameable, deep and dark. “Look at you – you think you have a choice here,” he shook his head and pulled the slim remote for the shock collar Neal wore from his jacket pocket and waggled it between thumb and forefinger.

Neal could feel the blood drain from his face and he suddenly wanted to vomit. “So that’s how you want to play it? I’m disappointed in you, Matthew.” He wished he could have kept the quaver out of his voice.

“You think I care? Get on your knees.”

“Matthew –“ Neal held his hands up, palms out, trying to reason with him. The sudden, excruciating pain that assailed him when Keller depressed the button on the remote demonstrated the futility in that. 

Neal fell to his hands and knees, trying and failing to suppress a scream. But the pain was over soon – sooner than when Keller had used it last time, and for that Neal was grateful. “I – I don’t –“ Neal panted, trying to catch his breath, but there were black dots floating in front of his eyes and he was afraid he would pass out. A hand at the back of his head, pulling him to his knees by the hair, soon revived him. Neal screamed again, his back bowed, the stimulation his nerves had just suffered from the collar making the pain in his scalp all the more excruciating.

“Please,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, “Matthew!”

“Shut up.” Keller pushed him to the floor, where he lay, limp and unresponsive, unable to move a muscle as spasms wracked his body. He almost didn’t feel Keller on him again, was almost unaware of what was happening until Keller was pushing his pants down.

\----

Neal sat atop the cliff, arms hugging his knees to his chest, his wings wrapped around himself. He wasn’t cold – it was a long time since he’d felt cold – but he found their downy softness comforting.

_So pretty like that._

He closed his eyes against the memory of Keller’s words, his hands on Neal's body.

_And you’re mine._

But he wasn’t, he wasn’t. He’d get out of here; it was just a matter of time. And patience.

_I’ve always wanted to see you like this._

“No,” he said out loud and tossed his head, as if he could banish the memory from his mind. 

It hadn’t been the first time in his life Neal had been backed against a wall, and it wasn’t going to be the last. He’d survived prison and he’d survive this. As the throbbing in his muscles from the shock collar being used on him faded, he told himself if he played his cards right, maybe he could turn this into an advantage. As the bruises on his throat and on his hips blossomed and became darker, he reasoned that Keller’s feelings for him might be something he could use, something to be played into, a means to an end. And as he banished Keller’s clumsy, whispered endearments from his memory, he reminded himself that, if nothing, four years in prison had taught him to be patient and he could be patient now. Someday soon there’d be an opportunity to escape, and when it came he was going to be ready – _they_ would be ready, he and Ben.

A sound off to his right made him jump, and Neal realized that Ben had arrived. He forced himself to relax. 

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you for hours,” Ben said exasperatedly, alighting on the warm rock nearby, grinning. 

_I’ve waited so long,_ said Keller’s voice in his head, unbidden, unwanted, and Neal shuddered, tuning Ben out.

“Neal, I’m talking here!” Ben said, a laugh in his voice, and Neal finally turned his face to look at him. The laughter died. “What happened?”

Neal couldn’t answer, didn’t yet trust his voice. Ben’s eyes drifted to the bruises on Neal's throat. “Did Matthew do that? That son of a bitch. I knew it – I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Oh, kid -”

Neal shook his head. “I won’t talk about it.” 

“Neal –“

“NEVER, Ben,” Neal gritted out from between clenched teeth.

Something Ben saw in his face made the older man decide not to pursue the topic. “I’m sorry, Neal,” he said simply, his voice cracking, and Neal looked away, back out to sea. 

It would be the last time they’d ever speak of it, because if Neal thought about what Keller had done to him, he knew he couldn’t believe the web of lies and self-delusion he would have to spin for himself. He needed to believe that he could use Keller’s sadistic affection to gain something, any advantage, to use in their escape. And to do that, he’d have to believe that he needed to, in a twisted way. It was the only way he was ever going to live through this. 

\----

May’s cool breezes gave way to June’s bright sun and July’s still waters. During those months, Neal felt his body get stronger, his stamina increase, and his skill as a flyer soon surpassed Ben’s. In addition, he noticed other changes in his body, very likely a result of whatever genetic mutation he’d undergone. He could move faster, was perhaps ten times stronger, and his sight and hearing were as acute as an eagle’s. 

By late August, the winds began to pick up again, and with them the general activity level on the island.

It would have been difficult not to notice it, as more staff began to arrive, more infrastructure was shipped in for security and communications, and more supplies. From his now customary spot gliding high above the island, the delivery of expensive wines, furnishings for the main house, and other luxuries were unmistakable to Neal's keen eye. 

Neal had spent the last months strengthening his body to withstand the flight to the mainland as well as learning as much as he could about the security measures Keller had in place, anything he could use in their escape. He now knew the layout of the main house like the back of his hand, knew he could find his way to Keller’s bedroom in the dark if he had to, which was where the man stored an extra key to the silver collars Neal and Ben wore. He also knew the names and schedules of all of the guards by heart, and was on a first name basis with most of them.

He thought of Peter and Elizabeth daily, but he rarely spoke of them to Ben, nor did he keep the photo Keller had given him at Christmas in the open. He’d take it out to look at whenever he was feeling desperate, letting their happy smiles fortify him, but the rest of the time he kept it in the top drawer of his dresser in his bedroom. 

He also painted – stunning landscapes from around the island in a variety of styles, from pointillism to photo-realism – to pass the time. He never wanted for supplies of the highest quality; Keller, on the occasions he’d sent for Neal – when he’d abused him, been cruel to him – was driven by guilt or gratitude, Neal really didn’t care, to be very generous afterwards. Initially, Neal rejected these gifts, but soon reasoned that perhaps some beauty could be derived from the ugliness.

He was just sketching a portrait of Ben flying against the sunset using oil pastels when the man in question appeared in the doorway of the great hall, panting, face lit up with excitement.

“Calm yourself, old man, I wouldn’t want you to have a heart attack,” Neal kidded, a smile on his lips.

“Hardy-har-har,” Ben replied sarcastically – they both knew he was as strong and as fit as Neal, and certainly the stronger flyer, though Neal was more willing to take risks. “Listen, I finally found out what all the hubbub’s about around here.”

“Spill.”

“There’s going to be an auction, in the main house, with all kinds of high-end mucky-mucks showing up.”

“An auction? Here? Do you know what’s on the block?” Neal had a queasy feeling in his stomach – Keller had not made a secret of the fact he intended to sell Neal and Ben someday, but Neal thought he’d have waited until he had other seraphs to offer, so he could make a big statement, the sick bastard. 

“It’s supposed to be a secret, but Joe the guy from Vegas thinks it’s art; there have been a lot of large wooden crates arriving, and he said he got a look inside one.”

“What did he see?”

“Jesus in a boat, he said. Oh, and one with a big tree.”

Neal thumbed through the card catalog in his brain, landed on Unsolved Art Crimes and came up with the Gardner Museum heist  in 1990. “Rembrandt’s ‘Storm on the Sea of Galilee’? Really?” He whistled, low.

“How the hell should I know? Jesus in a boat, he said. And what – you have a photographic memory for every painting, ever?”

“No, just the ones that have been spectacularly stolen.”

“Why does it matter, anyway?”

“I suppose it doesn’t.” Neal paused to wonder how Keller had gotten his hands on a cache of art easily worth over $500 million on the black market, and stolen over twenty years ago.

“I think – and correct me if I’m wrong here, kid, because you are the expert and everything – that you are missing the whole point.”

Neal lifted an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“Lots of people here means lots of distractions. Could be the chance we’ve been waiting for.”

“It also explains all the extra security I’ve been seeing on recon. We’ll have to plan this right. Did Joe say when this auction is?”

Ben shook his head. “He wasn’t exactly talking to _me_ at the time.” With his small stature, Ben had proven to be skilled at sneaking around once Neal taught him the basics. 

“OK, that’s our first priority. Our second will be mapping out our plan and making sure it works.” 

Neal strode across the room to one of the larger wooden panels, one that had recently been adorned with one of Neal's landscapes – the view from the cliff, his favorite place. It had been framed by Keller, one of his more recent gifts. Neal removed the painting and set it on the floor against the wall, then eased his fingertips along the panel’s edge until they gained the right amount of purchase. Pushing and pulling at the same time, he felt it give and then eased it out of its slot. 

On its back side had been taped a hand-drawn map of the island as well as a floor plan of the main house that included as many details of the security, electrical and communications systems as Neal and Ben had been able to personally confirm. Neal carried it over to the big table in the middle of the room and he and Ben pored over it. 

“I think it’d be most likely they’d hold the auction on the terrace by the infinity pool, don’t you?” Neal said, chewing a thumbnail.

“I have no opinion.”

Neal went on as if Ben hadn’t spoken. “It’s the largest space, plus the views will impress his guests – he’ll want that.”

“Who are these guests likely to be?”

“Good question. These are stolen artworks, so it’ll be people for whom price won’t be an issue. They’ll have to be capable of paying for the art too. We can assume a fair mix of powerful business types and very likely some actual criminals.”

“So – personal security for them, right?”

“Yes,” Neal agreed, impressed that Ben had been thinking tactically. “Which either helps or hinders us, it’s hard to tell at this point. We’ll have to plan for it either way.”

They stood together for several more minutes, Neal studying the map as if the solution to the puzzle would present itself, Ben watching Neal intently. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“It may be our only shot, Ben.”

\----

A week later, Neal was reading in one of the big wing chairs in the library when the two guards who brought them their food entered to set it up. One of them was new, and kept throwing awed yet fearful glances over at Neal as if he might attack at any moment. Neal ignored them both. 

“What? He’s just a man – he ain’t gonna bite or nothin’,” their usual guard, Travis said.

“You sure?” The new guy crossed himself and Neal had to shake his head at the irony. “I hear they can fly.”

“So? Bird got wings, they fly. Don’t you think a man with wings ought to fly?” Neal could not argue with that logic. 

“Yeah, but –“

“But what? Look, they just people like you and me, only the boss has got ‘em here for safe-keepin’. Like, so no one hurts ‘em or nothin’, you got it?”

“I suppose. What’s going to happen next Friday when all the people come for the big party?”

“Shit, that’s above my pay grade, so it’s definitely above yours. Mind your bidness and put out that silverware, Jake, and be careful you don’t put the vinegar-ette too close to the soup, ya heathen – the heat’ll make it break!”

“Oh, sorry!”

“Dinner’s on, Neal,” Travis called when they were done. “I’ll be back after 8:00 to pick up the dishes.”

“Thanks, Travis,” Neal said, marked his place in the book he was reading, rose, and stretched his wings out to their full span, primaries reaching out like fingers. The new guy watched, eyes wide, but knees quaking, and hid behind Travis, who laughed. 

“Quit fucking with the new guy, Neal.”

“Killjoy,” Neal chided, folded his wings along his back, and approached the table as the two men left.

Minutes later, when Ben came to join him, Neal filled him in on the latest detail. 

“Friday? Neal, that’s six days away. Are we going to be ready?”

“Ben, I’ve been ready for this since the day I got here.”

\----

Neal’s plan worked out like this: 

There was to be a welcome reception on Friday, with the auction Saturday afternoon. Using the fact that much of the security would be focused on the event on Friday as a diversion, Neal was going to break into the main house and make his way to Keller’s rooms, where he knew the man kept a spare key to the silver shock collars in a small safe set into the wall. The safe was a Madison 4100-X, which Neal could crack in his sleep, so he didn’t think it’d pose a problem. 

He’d used some of the Castilene Keller had gotten him as a gift to fashion a replica of the key, which resembled a simple flash drive, and painted it from memory. The thing would definitely pass a visual inspection, but it was lighter than the original, so as long as no one picked it up, they’d be good. As Neal was pulling his mini heist, Ben was going to monitor traffic into and out of the house, warning Neal as best he could if anyone approached. They’d worked out a series of bird calls that Ben could approximate from a spot gliding above the house – with their enhanced sight and hearing, this would not be a problem, and they’d already practiced their range under a variety of conditions and distances.

Key secured, they would steal away from the house during the auction on Saturday. They would travel light – only taking whatever supplies could be stored in the pockets of the cargo pants they usually wore, figuring it would not take long for Neal to contact Peter for assistance as soon as they got to the mainland.

\----

On Thursday evening after dinner, Neal and Ben sat in front of a fire sipping at glasses of red wine, a rare treat – Keller must have been feeling generous on the eve of such a huge score – and discussed the plan once more in low voices. They did not speak of what they would do once they were safe – that would only jinx it. The sound of the double doors to the great hall opening interrupted them; they turned to see Keller enter the room, walking slowly but with purpose to the couch. 

Neal rose, but Ben remained sitting. “Matthew,” he greeted carefully, warily. Keller visiting them was a rare thing – on those occasions when he wanted to be with Neal, he generally sent a guard for him. This was different, something was up. “To what do we owe the – visit?”

Keller, who’d been standing with his hand behind his back, lifted it to reveal that he held a bottle of expensive Scotch. “A celebration. Actually, an anniversary. Do you know, Neal, that it was one year ago today that you first came to this island?”

Neal refused to be baited. “Oh happy day,” he said sarcastically. “I suppose you’ve brought that to celebrate?”

“I thought it an important enough occasion to be commemorated, yes.” He went to the sideboard and snagged three water glasses. “Will you join me?”

Neal's eyes flashed at Ben, who got to his feet and looked nervously between the two of them. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in early.” 

“You sure?” Keller said, swinging the bottle in his hand. “It’s 20 years old.”

“I’m more of a beer and wine guy. Good night.” Ben left the room quickly without a backward glance to either of them. Neal watched him go, the flicked his eyes over to Keller, his face carefully blank. 

Keller walked around the couch and sat down, opening the bottle and pouring out two fingers for each of them. He patted the cushion beside him jovially, inviting Neal to join him. Neal took the proffered glass and sat at the end farthest from Keller, who made a moue of mock-distress at the distance. “It’s been a big year for you,” he said.

“Where _has_ the time gone?” Neal said bitterly. In truth, he’d completely forgotten that this milestone was even approaching, and the fact he had was frankly depressing. “But I think you’ve come for another reason, Matthew, or am I wrong that you’d just prefer to cause me grief at any opportunity?”

An expression of genuine hurt crossed Keller’s face that he quickly suppressed and he looked at Neal with what may have been regret, or indigestion, he couldn’t be sure – certainly unease. “No. I’ve come to explain a few things to you. You’ve no doubt noticed the increased activity on the island the last several weeks. And you being you, I’m sure you’ve also gleaned what it’s all for.” Neal inclined his head – playing coy at this juncture would be a waste of time – then drained his glass and watched Keller do the same. “I’ve got more than thirty important clients and their guests arriving starting tomorrow morning.”

“And I suppose it wouldn’t do for them to catch a glimpse of the pair of freaks you’re keeping as pets, would it?” Neal poured them each another hefty drink, then took a swig from his. “Don’t worry, Ben and I will lay low for the duration.”

“Well, thank you kindly, Neal, but you’ll understand if I don’t necessarily trust you on that one. I’m going to be adjusting the radius of your security collars through Sunday so that you’ll be confined to this house only. I do apologize.”

Neal felt a flash of annoyance pass over his face and tried to mask it with a drink from his glass.

“Now, now, don’t pout,” Keller said mockingly.

Neal brooded for a minute before speaking. “You know I hate being cooped up.”

“Aw, baby.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Keller sidled closer to Neal on the couch and reached out a hand, caressed Neal's cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You are my baby,” he said quietly. The glimpse of naked need and desire in his eyes was repugnant to Neal.

“I’m nobody’s baby. No one wants _this,_ ” he gestured at his wings and looked away.

“I do,” Keller said, leaning in to kiss Neal. Neal let him, even if he didn’t kiss him back, and Keller moved closer to Neal, to improve his angle, pressing his tongue between Neal's lips, licking at his teeth gently, as if asking for admittance. “There, isn’t that nice?” Keller purred when he pulled away.

Neal's lack of response was taken for agreement, and Keller smiled. Neal downed the rest of the Scotch in his own glass and watched Keller mimic him, then poured another measure for each of them. “This reminds me of that Macallan 1939 we had in Arles, do you remember, Matthew?” Neal asked, leaning back against the soft cushions of the couch.

“Do I? It set me back a pretty penny.”

“It did? I thought you’d ganked it from that shop owner?” Neal took another deep draft and Keller followed suit.

“I wanted to impress you.”

Neal laughed. “Well, you did.” He grimaced suddenly as reality impinged on the memory. “What got us here, Matty?” he asked, serious.

Keller shook his head and drained his glass. “Competition that led to a lot of resentment. And oh yeah, you got me sent me to prison. Twice.” Keller’s words were bitter but his tone was regretful.

“Yeah. Wish I could be sorry about that.”

“Wish I could be sorry for bringing you here against your will.”

“Guess we’re just a coupla bastards,” Neal said in a low voice and refilled Keller’s glass. This time when Keller kissed him, Neal didn’t pull away, and even kissed him back. 

Keller leaned forward, easing Neal back to lie on the couch. Neal shifted his hips and shoulders, to make his wings comfortable, and then Keller was on top of him, kissing down his jaw and throat, moaning slightly against Neal’s warm skin. Neal reached his right hand down and palmed Keller’s erect dick in his pants, squeezing harder when Keller moaned and rutted against him. Neal swiftly undid Keller’s belt and pushed his pants down – he rarely wore underwear – freeing Keller’s cock and jacking it. By now, he knew what Keller liked, and so he grasped it tightly, dug his thumbnail into the slit until Keller was hissing against his collarbone and calling him a bastard, his rough ministrations making Keller come soon after, with a moan and a whimper against Neal's neck before he collapsed on top of him.

Keller passed out within seconds, aided greatly by Neal's gentle fingertips massaging his scalp, and the hefty amount of Scotch he just drank. A few minutes later, Ben returned to the room and stood over them both. 

“You have it?” Neal asked softly, his tone soothing, his lips pressed against Keller’s ear.

Ben held up the replica for the key to the collars and let it dangle between his fingers. Neal let his left hand drift down slowly until his first two fingers could reach inside Keller’s jacket pocket. Ignoring the remote to the collars, Neal instead focused on finding the key ring he knew he would find lying beside it. He flexed his hand so that the key wouldn’t rattle against its ring, but was careful to keep the rest of his arm in place lest he rouse Keller, who was snoring softly into Neal's shoulder.

Ben took the key from Neal and, more quietly than quickly, swapped the real thing for the fake, placing the ring back in Neal's hand. Neal slid it back into Keller’s pocket easily, then Ben moved silently from the room.

Minutes later, Keller roused and pushed himself up with his hands beside Neal's head on the couch. “Did I fall ashleep?” he slurred, confused.

“Only for a minute,” Neal told him, pushing him to a sitting position none too gently and sitting up himself, wings twitching. “You never could hold your liquor, Keller.” 

Keller stood and looked around the couch, absent-mindedly slipping his hand inside his jacket pocket, double-checking for the remote and key that were always there. Apparently satisfied nothing was amiss, he tucked himself back up and ran a hand through his hair. “Huh.” He blinked, hard, clearly drunk from the Scotch, having matched Neal drink-for-drink. 

“Maybe you should get to bed,” Neal suggested, and Keller nodded, staggering from the room and out of the house. 

Ben returned to the room once the main doors slammed shut, to find Neal mopping Keller’s mess from his stomach distastefully. “Holy shit, I can’t believe we pulled it off,” Ben breathed.

“Always have a Plan B, Ben,” Neal told him, grabbing the Scotch bottle and pouring himself another.

\----

Neal and Ben spent the entire next day separated, at different corners of the house, too nervous to discuss their plans, afraid they might jinx it. The wait until dusk, when a cocktail reception in the main house would be garnering most of the attention on the island, was both interminable and came too fast. 

As darkness fell, Neal stood in front of the dresser in his bedroom, the framed photo of Peter and Elizabeth clutched in his hands, staring at them intently. 

“Ready?” Ben said softly from his open door.

“Born ready,” Neal said. Ben walked toward the great hall and Neal paused to touch his lovers’ faces with his fingertips. “Soon,” he promised, put the frame back in its customary spot in the top drawer and followed Ben down to the terrace.

The key was very similar to the one used to secure Neal's old tracking anklet, with metallic leads on the inside that corresponded to matching ones in a slot at the top of the catch of each collar. Neal first freed Ben, then stooped to allow his shorter friend to do the same. They’d waited until this time to undo them because, as with his anklet, Neal suspected their status would be constantly monitored, and any disruption might set off an alert. At least his four years on the damn anklet had taught him _something_.

Without a word, they made their way down the steps to the beach; from there they would go on foot to the bottom of the cliff, because it was the tallest point on the island and would provide a natural blind spot to the surveillance equipment that had been installed. They’d take off from the base of the cliff, hidden by its bulk, and would soon be too far away for anything on the island to be able to catch or harm them, unless Keller had suddenly procured a helicopter, which Neal knew he had not.

They were about twenty minutes into their trek before they were caught. 

Unexpectedly, and without warning, they saw headlights turn a corner up ahead as a jeep containing two security men sped their way. 

“Shit!” Ben exclaimed. “They must have changed up the patrol schedule!”

“No time to discuss it – run!” Neal said urgently and they turned to flee as the jeep sped up behind them and the guards began to shout at them to stop. 

Ben unfurled his wings, ready to take flight, and Neal followed suit. The sudden report of a gun behind them was a shock, and Neal thought he felt the bullet whiz past his head. “Come on, Neal, come on!” Ben said urgently, already in the air and flying about twelve feet off the ground, parallel to it. Neal got his wings up and took off, bullets flying behind him, and was soon airborne as well.

The whine of another bullet behind him made him duck, but the sound of its trajectory changed and Neal heard the unmistakable sound of it finding its target. With a grunt, Ben flinched, flipped over and fell to the beach, rolling twice before getting to his feet, shaking his head, and running like hell. He was holding his right wing at an odd angle and Neal knew he was hit. He was also swiftly losing ground to the pursuing jeep, which was nearly upon him. 

Neal wheeled up into the air to turn back. He saw that the jeep had passed Ben and was coming to a stop in front of him. Ben skidded to a stop and started to run in the opposite direction, both guards scrambling out of the vehicle to pursue him. 

“Ben!” Neal yelled, ducking and wheeling out over the waves as one of the guards sent a wild shot his way. He doubled back, flying up behind Ben, then past him.

“Go, Neal! Go!” Ben screamed frantically at Neal, waving him off, but Neal wheeled around and flew at the guard closest to Ben like a missile, tackling him and sending them both tumbling to the beach in a tangle of arms, legs and feathers. Grunting, Neal scrambled to get up before the guard did, twisting his body around and locking his arms around the man in a full Nelson to keep his gun arm immobilized. Despite his smaller size, Neal was stronger, and the man’s struggles soon weakened. 

“Neal!” Ben called, running back up the beach to help.

“No, Ben!” Neal yelled back, but before he could do anything else, the second guard arrived on the scene. Standing slightly in front of Neal with his back to the waves, he pointed his gun at him. 

“I don’t want to, but I _will shoot you,_ ” the man, who Neal did not recognize, panted. He pivoted to the side as Ben arrived, so that there was no way Ben didn’t know there was a gun trained on his friend.

Neal let the struggling man in his arms go and straightened up, his hands in the air and breathing raggedly. He could not suppress the cry of frustration that bubbled up out of him, its sound echoing off the cliff ahead.

\----

Neal stood in front of Keller in the great hall, back straight and limbs loose, Ben fuming with barely suppressed fury beside him. Neal didn’t think it would do to show any outward signs of his anger, but he was fuming inside as well. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready for anything, ready to be zapped at any moment, ready to fight as well. He thought it might come to this. Some sick part of him hoped it would, because he wanted to see Keller suffer.

Keller stared back at them both, his lips in a thin line, speechless. The guard that had just reattached a collar around first Ben’s then Neal's necks wisely stood back quickly, not wanting to be in the crosshairs for this confrontation. 

“Who is responsible?” Keller asked, his voice tight yet controlled. His hand was in his right jacket pocket, toying with something, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was.

“Do you really have to ask?” Neal answered mildly.

“Neal –“

“Did you think I wouldn’t try? Did you think I’d lay down for that?”

“You laid down for plenty,” Keller said nastily.

“And I _used it_. Each and every second I was plotting how to get away. From you.” Even now, his face white with fury, there was a flash in Keller’s eyes that betrayed his feelings, that the prospect of Neal’s rejection pained him. “Did you think I liked it? Liked you?” Neal went on, his voice quiet, challenging. 

“Shut up.”

“I have always hated you.”

“SHUT UP!” Keller strode forward, reeled his right arm back and backhanded Neal across the mouth. 

Neal's head snapped to the side as Ben took a step forward. The guard grabbed Ben’s elbow and pulled him away from the two men. 

Neal looked at Keller sideways, his blue eyes flashing. He could taste blood, but he didn’t care, eyeing Keller and the remote he held in his hand warily. He forced his lips into a mocking smile. It was not difficult. 

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No, I’m laughing with you,” Neal said, feeling dangerous. He knew Keller would make him regret this, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t help himself.

“Oh my God, I’m going to make you hurt.”

“If it makes you feel better.”

Keller laughed then, his own eyes glittering and dark as he toyed with the remote in his hand some more. “It would make me feel a whole. Lot. Better.” He pressed a four digit code into the remote and Neal stiffened. 

“Ben,” Keller said to the older man, keeping his eyes on Neal's face. “Say goodbye.”

“Matthew, leave him be!” Ben pleaded. 

But Neal knew exactly what Keller meant to do, and the realization was like a punch to the throat – sudden and vicious. “Keller!” he shouted, shooting his hand out as if he could stop it, even as Keller pressed the final button.

There was a high-pitched whining followed by a bright flash and a roar of noise as the collar around Ben’s neck exploded, killing him instantly as well as the guard that still held him by the elbow. 

Neal, shocked, fell to the floor on his hands and knees, his face frozen in horror. 

Keller strode to him and fisted his hand in Neal's hair, pulling him up to his knees and leaning down over him. “That was just the beginning, Neal,” he said, voice shaking with fury and spit flying from his lips. “I have not even _begun_ to make you hurt.”

“No.” Neal said, shaking Keller off of him and getting to his feet. He dragged his eyes from the carnage on the other side of the room, could feel tears fall down his cheeks as the oily smoke that hung in the air stung them. 

“No!” 

He looked at Keller, could feel anger and despair rising in his chest until it felt like he was going to burst. Acting on instinct, he straightened his back and flared out his wings in fury, flexed them to their full span, rose up on his toes.

“NO!” he raged, his arms coming up, palms outward, and he could feel a strange tingling sensation, almost a burning, suffuse his flesh and bones.

Just then, the lights seemed to dim and flicker as a sudden, other brightness filled the room that Neal was shocked to realize was coming from him. He looked down and saw blinding, white light pouring from his fingertips, his navel, his nipples, bleeding, like plasma, like lava, burning away his clothing until he was standing in rags. 

When he glanced up at Keller again, the man had a look of abject terror on his face. “What is this?” Neal asked, and his voice sounded strange – booming, somehow, and yet he was barely whispering.

Keller was struck dumb, had fallen to his knees and was holding his hands before his eyes, to shield them from the bright light, though he clearly was so mesmerized he couldn’t look away entirely. 

The pressure inside Neal's body began to mount, and with it the light began to get brighter, until it filled the entire space, the entire house. 

“Neal, stop!” Keller cried, backing away as the three remaining guards headed for the door.

But Neal couldn’t stop it – he hardly knew how it started. He felt like he might explode, or more accurately, ignite. Whatever this was, he had no control over it, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. 

Eventually, Keller got to the door, pulled it open and ran, his guards bringing up the rear. With their absence, Neal felt his fury diminish, and with that, the terrifying energy inside him dissipated. Panting as if he’d run a marathon, he turned to look at Ben’s body where it lay, then went to kneel beside the corpse and took up one calloused hand in both of his. “I’m sorry,” he moaned, “so, so sorry.” 

\----

Neal sat in the middle of his bed, cross legged, the picture of Peter and Elizabeth held in his lap. He was naked after a shower that had done nothing to calm him, or wash the smell of burning from his body, or make him feel clean. His wings were spread out to dry, and he could no longer keep the tears at bay.

“I failed… I’m so sorry, my loves, but I failed,” he said, and hugged the picture to his chest as a sob tore from him. 

Feeling like the grief might suffocate him, he got up from the bed and went to the window to stare out at the moonlit waves crashing on the darkened beach. If he could, he wouldn’t have remained here, stuck in the house with his dead friend’s body, poor Ben who he’d failed utterly to help or protect. But the tight radius Keller had imposed on the collar was still in effect, and Neal had no other place he could go. So he sat alone in his room, hoping as always to derive some measure of comfort from the picture of the Burkes, but finding none.

 _Ben!_ His friend, who he’d come to love as a mentor, a father – he was dead and it was Neal's fault; there was no other way to look at it. It was Neal's failure that had cost Ben his life, Neal's pride, Neal's folly in goading Keller, waving the red cloak in front of the bull. 

And what, exactly, had it gotten him? He was still Keller’s prisoner, was still going to be tortured and tormented by a man who had already done unspeakable things to him and was probably right now dreaming up more. Keller held much more than Neal's life and freedom in his hands, he held his soul, and his sanity. And now that Neal had defied him, rejected him, there was no predicting what he would do to Neal. Keller would surely now sell him off to someone, as he’d said over a year ago, to be a slave to some other sick bastard who would do anything he wanted to Neal. There would be no more playing on Keller’s twisted affection for Neal, no hoping he could gain favors by playing, however subtly, on memories of feelings they never shared.

And in the interim… in the interim, Neal didn’t want to think of the indignities and pain Keller would visit upon him, both physical and mental. Emotional. 

_Emotional._

Neal felt his stomach clench with a sudden nausea as another realization dawned. It wouldn’t be beneath Keller to lash out beyond Neal, to hurt the two people Neal loved most just to spite him, to make him suffer. He’d certainly proven himself capable of getting to them, having kidnapped both Peter and Elizabeth in turn. That pain, that guilt, that helplessness would wound Neal in a way that a hundred more years of imprisonment and isolation and torture never could. 

He couldn’t let that happen, he wouldn’t.

He looked down at the picture of their smiling faces and, shaking his head, came to a decision. 

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t make it through this, that I gave up, and I hope you understand that I don’t really have a choice,” he told them, running his fingertips over their faces. “No choice at all.”

He lay himself down on the bed then, on his side because it was more comfortable for his wings, and spent the rest of the night remembering as many good times as he could, as many as would comfort him for now.

Because in the morning, when the sun had risen and washed the terrace in its golden light, he was going to take off from its edge for one last time, and fly away until the collar exploded and took him with it. In the morning he was going to die.

\----

Neal woke with a start, the picture of Peter and Elizabeth clutched to his chest. He’d fallen into an exhausted sleep at around 4:00 am, and he squinted against the morning light that came through the windows, slanting across his bed. Rising, he left the picture on the bed and went to the bathroom, then dressed in a pair of sweatpants and padded out to the great hall. Noting that the room had been put back in order – someone had clearly come and collected the bodies of Ben and the guard, and cleaned up – he opened the double doors to the terrace and walked slowly across it, stretched out his wings and felt the cool morning breeze ruffle his feathers.

He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the pull of the wind at the feathers, reveling in that tugging sensation for one final time. At length, he bent his knees and prepared to take flight. A footfall behind him and a cleared throat got his attention, causing him to turn around. 

Keller stood against the doorframe, his expression unreadable. “I hope you weren’t thinking of doing anything rash.”

Neal did not trust himself to answer.

“Because I’d hate to think what would become of him without someone to look after him, to teach him.”

“Become of who?” Neal asked angrily; trust Keller to ruin even the moment of his deepest despair for him.

Keller stepped aside and brought his arm forward, and Neal saw that he was holding the hand of a small boy, who stood away from Keller and stared up at him with distrust in his eyes. He was skinny and his knees were too bony – like 8-year old boys everywhere – with a mop of tangled blonde curls atop a dirty face. When he moved, the golden wings that adorned his back – they were way too large for him and he seemed to have difficulty even staying upright – fluttered nervously.

“This is Oliver,” Keller said, dropping the boy’s hand when he was positioned in front of Keller, “and he’s come to live here for a while too.” He got down on one knee and said into Oliver’s ear, “Oliver, this is Neal. He’s going to take good care of you.”

“Fuck you,” Oliver said viciously and backed away from them both.

Keller rose, laughing, and looked at Neal.

“You bastard,” Neal said. “You brought a kid here?”

“I paid a fair price.”

“You disgust me,” Neal said, barely controlling the urge to spit on the ground. He held a hand out to Oliver, who reluctantly walked to his side, clearly understanding which of the two men to trust more. Neal unconsciously moved in front of him, to protect him.

“So you’ve made clear,” Keller replied. “But still, the boy will need a mentor. Are you up to the job, or did you have something else you needed to do?”

xXxXxXxXx

“Oh, Neal!” Elizabeth breathed, throwing her arms around him and burying her face into his neck. Her breath on his skin was warm and soft, chasing away the chill that had descended as he told his story, but he could feel tears on her face, and he longed to brush them away. “You stayed for Oliver?”

“Someone had to protect him from Keller, help him. He was just a kid, and like Keller said, his father sold him away. A month later, Moira arrived, then the twins, Jason and Kyle, and they were defenseless, El, they needed me.”

“But you were defenseless too. Neal, what Keller did to you, it’s sickening.”

“He never touched me after that night, not after he saw what I was capable of. Turns out he was right to be afraid of me – I killed him in the end, didn’t I? I got justice for Ben.” Suddenly disturbed by the reminder of what he’d been capable of, Neal disentangled himself from El’s arms and went into the kitchen to put his mug into the dishwasher.

Elizabeth followed him into the kitchen, was standing right behind him when he straightened up. Her small hand was warm in the small of his back and he turned into the comfort of her arms, comfort he’d longed for so much over the last two years.

“Listen to me,” she said, and then raised her hands to his face, one on either side, making him look at her. “Matthew Keller was an evil man. You did what you had to do, what no one else could, and you saved people, love.” 

Neal smiled sadly. “I try to remind myself of that from time to time, and sometimes I believe it. Ben – he was like the dad I never had, you know? He made me better for having known him. He lifted me up when I was at my lowest. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him. I owe him so much.”

Elizabeth got up on her toes and kissed him, a light brushing of her lips over his, then dropped her arms around his waist. He pulled her in close, burying his face in her hair and breathing in the scent of her– it calmed him. 

“He’d be proud of you.”

“I hope I can someday be one tenth the man he was.”

“You are, Neal, I think so.”

“All I have to do is prove it,” he said, his tone suddenly determined, because he had not just come home to be with the Burkes again – he had a mission.

“Oh?”

“There’s a reason for all of this, El, and that’s what I found out over the six months since Peter found me, after I left that island.” He put his hands on her shoulders and the glimmer of faith and trust he saw in her eyes heartened him, made him feel lighter. “I have a job to do – I know that now.”

“A job? What?”

“I’ll explain later. The first thing I need to do is find Ben’s daughter. I have to find Juliet, tell her what happened to her father. Will you help me?” 

“We’ll both help you,” Peter said from the doorway, and Neal and El turned to take in the sight of him, hair sticking out in all directions and face still sleep-rumpled. He yawned. “But first thing’s first – tell me what I missed?”

\----

Thank you for your time!

**Author's Note:**

> * Many thanks to my betas/cheerleaders, DMK0064 and JRosemary. They made this infinitely better. And I should also throw a shout-out to Elrhiarhodan for listening to me whinge about this for MONTHS.  
> * Huge Neal-kisses to my talented artist, Embroiderama, who found some dead-sexy ways to put wings on one Mr. Matt Bomer, eh? You can [find it here](http://embroiderama.livejournal.com/501720.html) \- go and give her some love.  
> * Title is a lyric from the song “King of Birds” by REM.


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